It's not just for dogs. Humans can sit there too. But dogs have a special invitation to curl up in this chair, and all three of my dogs have done so.
It's a fairly old and run down chair. But that's just the right kind of chair for dogs.
It is also, apparently, a cat chair. My three cats have all loved it too, and during the day, when my dog is usually busy following me around the other rooms of the house, the cats slip into my room to gaze out the window while perched on the arm of the chair or to curl up in the chair, a perfectly tidy circle of cozy fur in the big seat.
Gracie is okay with that, as long as the cats clear out at night. She likes to sleep in the dog chair at night. Though she is welcome to snooze on the foot of the bed, this pooch mostly chooses to crash out on either her floor rug or the dog chair. Usually some of both.
This morning, Luna put on quite a show, rubbing her head on the little table full of plants, my legs, even on Gracie's head resting on the arm of the dog chair.
Luckily, Gracie doesn't mind sharing a little head rubbing from a friendly cat.
That's a nice thing about a dog chair. It lends a peaceful, gentle, forgiving air to the room, and brings out the best in everyone.
And it is also a very good place to keep your eye on your prize possessions.
* * * * *
For another story about Gracie and her rawhide bones in my bedroom, read this:
Last weekend in my backyard, the humans were busy working while the pets worked on their naps.
I do not pretend to understand my pets' minds/
Oh sure, they do a bang-up job of letting me know what they'd like me to do for them.
Their communication to me around meals, doors, and requests for attention come through loud and clear, and they have trained me to anticipate and meet their needs very well.
But certainly there is a lot more going on inside of those adorable furry heads than I can grasp.
I think Sirius is thinking how nice it feels to rest those dainty white feet.
Take chaise lounges for example.
For these last six or seven months, my back-yard lounge chairs have been under wraps, hidden away from the winter rains, and inaccessible for anyone's use.
But when we humans brought the chairs out into the sunshine last weekend, it took only a hot minute for two of my clever cats to hop up and make themselves entirely at home.
I think Luna wants me to fan him and feed him grapes.
These fabulous felines apparently had no trouble recalling the express purpose of the chaise lounges. They lounged in proper style, stretching out across the smooth, sun-warmed wood and settling in for a pair of lovely, shade-dappled, afternoon naps.
All they needed were tiny novels and meow-sized margaritas for the perfect summer relaxation experience.
Clearly my cats understand with infinite subtlety and depth the true purpose of the chaise lounge.
"Guys! No need to rest like animals on bare wood - hold out for the cushions!
In an unusually magnanimous gesture, Gracie did not challenge the cats to the chairs. She calmly watched their lounging session from her comfortable patch of grass.
And though I don't claim to understand her thoughts any more than I do the cats', I'm pretty sure my clever dog's logic was to wait her turn until we put the cushions on.
I baked my sick friend some chocolate chip cookies
and I'm glad to report he felt well enough to eat them.
For the past couple days, I?Ve been visiting a friend who is sick.
No, it?S not Covid 19. Nor any other contagious ailment, so it?S safe enough to see him.
A number of his other friends have been visiting too so there are often three or four of us gathered in his room at the same time. Interestingly, they have all had the same malady that my friend suffers now, so they have good insights and advice to offer him.
I'm new to this but I'm learning.
My friend is mostly awake and conversant, though certainly not himself. Yesterday, he was swallowed up with pain and desperate in his suffering. We talked to him, encouraged him, brainstormed ways to help him feel more comfortable. My friend has been sick like this before and we all reminded him that if he got through it before, he can get through it again.
Positive vibes.
Breathe deep.
Drink lots of water.
Try to sleep.
During the worst of it, we considered getting him some emergency medical help, but in the end everyone agreed that he's better off staying put in his own bed. Miserable as he is, we know for a fact that our friend will not die - or be permanently harmed - by his illness.
In fact, this disease is not a disease at all.
This is the cure.
* * * * *
My friend is dope sick.
Heroin has ruled his life for the past decade and a half. Though he's made some major strides toward sobriety in the past couple years, he still struggles. And the past six weeks have been a nightmare of nonstop smoking.
So a few days ago, he decided to that the only way to put an end to this run was to detox.
Over the years, my friend has gone through many episodes of detox - the fancy kind at a pricey rehab center as well as the kind where you're in jail - and he knew exactly what he was up against. His friends, who are recovered addicts themselves and have all gone through this same hell, knew what they were getting into, and they know what they're doing.
Though my friend has told me many stories about his detox adventures, this is my first rodeo.
What I've gained from the experience so far is this:
Heroin is evil. Sure, when you're high, heroin takes away your pain and makes you feel, as my friend always says, perfect. But in the end, heroin all but destroys you. And that's if you're lucky to not overdose.
More than ever, I truly believe that anyone who uses heroin must be in so much physical, mental or spiritual pain that they are willing to take the black, soul-sucking, deep-pit-of-hell bad of heroin with the momentary flash of good.
People who use heroin deserves our compassion and support. Not our judgment and disapproval.
* * * * *
I saw my friend again today, and it looks like he's past the worst of it. He's still a ways from getting back on his feet, but he slept twelve hours last night and feels somewhat human again.
We are all greatly relieved.
I'd like to think that my chocolate chip cookies may have helped.
we now have the agony of more black people dying at the hands of the police. From what I can tell, the whole nation is horrified by the new waves of violence, and social media is feverish with calls to action.
And to be one hundred percent clear, I'm for that.
Idanquot;m for people paying attention to what's happening to our black brothers and sisters.
I'm for equal rights.
I'm for an end to systemic racism.
I'm for peace and brotherhood and compassion and love among all people.
But I am not for the
impatience
lack of education
guilt and shame
and negativity that I hear and see, coming from all directions.
These things make me tired. And sad.
Because there is so much we need to talk about and so little space for a real conversation.
Let me try to begin.
* * * * *
America's persoalan with racism is not new.
Things did not begin to go wrong
when George Floyd's neck went under that police officer's knee.
When Amy Cooper ominously threatened to call the cops on Christian Cooper
when Breonna Taylor was gunned down in her own apartment.
When Ahmaud Arbury was shot and killed by a father and son while out for a run.
No, I'm sorry but these racially-motivated outrages go back through the centuries, all the way to the very beginning of America. The first black slaves came to the colonies in 1619. That's a year before the Mayflower pulled in.
Those of us who were around for the Civil Rights Era of the 1950s and 60s can testify to the ongoing narrative of racial injustice and police brutality. In those days, black people were killed not just by police but at the hands of angry white citizens: consider the 1955 case of a 14 year old black boy named Emmett Till who was accused of wolf-whistling at a white woman in a Mississippi grocery store who was found dead, disfigured, and dumped in the bottom of the Tallahatchie River.In 1964, three civil rights workers in Mississippi sent to register black voters ended up dead and their bodies dumped in a partially completed dam. While looking for them, authorities turned up a number of anonymous bodies, victims of past lynchings and murders. Apparently, the KKK was involved.
We were also outraged by police attacking otherwise peaceful protest movements, like Martin Luther King Jr's 1965 Selma to Montgomery march. Police attacked the unarmed protesters with billy clubs and tear gas; one of the organizers, Amelia Boynton, was beaten unconscious and the event was tagged Bloody Sunday.
I'm not sharing these stories to give you nightmares but to make an important point.
Racism may be new on some people's radar, especially Gen Xers, Millennials, and Gen Zers who were not around for the highly charged Civil Rights Era, but it's important to keep a realistic perspective:
Racism has been a fact of American life since the beginning. The racist events of 2020 are horrific in their own right, but must be considered in the context of the past decades and centuries; the latest in a long, miserable line of dominoes to fall.
Though the current reality is unacceptable and we still have much work to do, it's important to respect the hard work and sacrifices that many black and white Americans have made in the past to advance the cause of racial equality. We are fortunate to stand on their shoulders.
* * * * *
I'm entirely supportive of our new national conversation on racism. I think it's penting to moving forward, and I love that folks from all corners of life are speaking up. But as listeners, we have a responsibility to test those words, to hold the speakers accountable to history and common sense, to think about rather than simply feel our response.
Case in point.
I love Trevor Noah. I didn't follow him during his stand-up days, but since he took over at The Daily Show, I often watch his videos. I enjoy his smooth manner and sly sense of humor, and respect his intellect and point of view.
Ditto for his recent piece, a passionate and eloquent commentary about our current situation. He says a lot of beautiful, thoughtful, interesting things and I love his heart. But when Noah mentioned that people in power pushed back against Martin Luther King Jr. Telling him that his was the "wrong way" to protest, I was shocked. I'd never heard that idea before.
So I looked into some facts.
Other than a few nut jobs at the FBI, a minority of die-hard racists, and black leaders like Malcom X who preferred violent protest, MLK was widely respected and much loved in his day as a nonviolent protester and a man of integrity. He won the Nobel Peace Prize, for heaven's sake, as well as the Presidential Medal of Freedom and Congressional Medal of Honor. A holiday to his honor was established in 1971, three years after his death, and enacted as a federal holiday in 1986. Hundreds of streets have been renamed in his gaji; here in my own state, the county that includes the city of Seattle was renamed for him; and his memorial on the National Mall in Washington DC was dedicated in 2011.
That's a lot of love for a black Southern preacher. I found no evidence that MLK was ever disparaged or told that his way was the "wrong waydanquot; to protest. Sorry, Noah, you got that one wrong.
And my point here is not to shame Noah but simply to say, we must all take responsibility for paying attention to the facts and not just the emotional volume of our commentary.
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I take responsibility for my own education and hope that you do too.
* * * * *
As a kid, I often spent a long time trying to fall asleep at night. Thanks to what I now know as Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome, it was quite normal to me to toss and turn for an hour or so after my mom tucked me in, which left me lots of time to ponder the nature of the universe and other such mysteries. It was probably in third grade, when we first got to use actual social studies textbooks with photos of kids from all around the world, sitting in their Polynesian huts or Mongolian yurts or tiny Eastern European apartments, that I began to reflect on my good fortune.
One could debate the merits of my conclusions, but this is where my seven-year-old late-night thought train took me: I am a white American girl, living in the best state in the country. (Detroit was booming in those days.) My parents went to college and someday I will too. We have a nice house, nice clothes, a cool car ('67 Barracuda) and plenty of food. I am smart, strong and healthy. I have literally the best of everything in life and I couldn't be any luckier.
And with that thought came the flip side of the coin. Virtually every other child in the world had, in one way or another, less than me. I felt not guilt or shame because I knew I had done nothing to earn all those wonderful things. I was simply born into them. And the kids who had less than me had done nothing to deserve their fate either. That's just the world to which they were were born.
But I knew, from that moment forward, that my purpose in life was to share my advantages with those who had less. I had no idea what that would look like, but I just knew that in this uneven distribution of advantage, my life's work would be to try to even the score.
While I am not asking for a medal, I'd say that I've kept true to that purpose. With my life, I've tried to embrace differences, to give to those who have less, and to love whoever God puts in my path, blacks, whites, and every color in between.
So imagine my surprise to learn recently that as a white person, I am blind to my own white privilege. I'm told that white people like me are so inherently racist that we can't even see our own racism, and as an old, washed up, morally corrupted Boomer, that's especially true. You know how those Karens are.
Well, I don't think that's a fair conclusion. And I don't think it's true. But I have learned that the more I try to defend myself, to explain myself, the more people pinch their lips together and firmly shake their head, "no." Apparently, the more I say I'm not a racist, the more true it is that I am one.
It's frustrating to be judged by a stereotype, to be unheard, to have people discount my own experience without really understanding who I am.
* * * * *
So if you've been on Instagram lately, you've seen that it's crammed full of posts explaining to white people how to improve our allyship and become anti-racist.
Donate money to black causes
Follow black influencers
Frequent and promote black businesses
Vote for anti-racist candidates
Watch programs and read books about white privilege and racism
Watch programs and read books about black culture
Support black protest movements
Post appropriate memes.
Speak out against racism.
And so on.
I think all those actions are wonderful. And I think that when we do those things, we will help to mend together the broken places that still need repairing between blacks and whites.
But I also think that it's important to be kind. To be gracious. To recognize the guilt and shame we heap upon each other with these lists of responsibilities.
To do any one of those things is a true act of love.
To judge yourself for not doing enough of them is too much.
And I hope the white Americans who want so badly to help their black brothers and sisters will be kind to themselves and to each other, and realize that every single step we take together - no matter how small - leads us that much closer to the promised land.
* * * * *
I am still tired.
But I know I'm not the only one.
The weight of these issues,
of our cares for the black babies tucked into their cribs fast asleep, who haven't learned yet about the world they've been born into,
of our fears for the next black man or woman who stands on the wrong side of a police officer's gun (or knee),
of our agony for the mother whose black teenage son is out on the sidewalks after dark, not realizing the danger he's in,
they hang heavy around our necks.
Certainly they hang heaviest around the necks of our black brothers and sisters, but they cause pain and heartache to white people too.
I will never know exactly how it feels to be black.
And no black person will ever know exactly how it feels to be white.
But I don't think that's our goal.
Our goal is not to come to perfect understanding.
Our goal is to build a place where we can live
in peace and justice,
in kindness and respect,
in true brotherhood.
Our goal is to overcome the evil that has torn us apart.
Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome some day.
My bedroom basks in sunshine while the bathroom sits in shadows. You'd never know from this photo that the walls are the exact same color.
It's been six or seven years since I changed.
Long a proponent of bold color and lots of action in my decor, my aesthetic abruptly switched to a starkly minimal streak. Suddenly I craved neutrals all day, simple black and white accents, and lots of big empty space on my walls.
To be honest, this timeline matches up with the decline of my mother's health. Her battle with Lewy Body Dementia took a toll on my state of mind as well as hers, and when she became seriously ill, I found that a calm, visually quiet home brought peace to my troubled soul.
So I began to live, quite contentedly, with pale, neutral, empty spaces.
If you look closely, you can see the last remaining 1980s pink and blue morning glories in the tile around my bathtub. My brain refuses to acknowledge them, but there they are in all their glory.
This was especially true in my bedroom and bathroom. I needed Zen-level calm in the place where I wound down at night for restful sleep, and geared myself up in the morning to face another day. So I stripped both rooms down to bare essentials and light beige walls, and just let everything be for years on end.
A year and a half ago, I dreamed of four paintings on the then-completely blank wall of my bedroom. Inspired by my vision, I went out on a limb and brought this kecil gallery to life. Though this felt like a huge step forward, these pieces were just what I needed to begin stepping out from my empty-wall phase, and hang exactly in the same spot to this day.
Many times over the past year, those paintings have caught my eye, and I am grateful that I made what felt like the very bold step to add them.
I'll admit that the grey background against the beige wall is hardly a cutting edge decor statement. But the low contrast combination is exactly what feels pleasing to my brain, and that is good enough for me.
Last week, they inspired me further.
Okay, I tell myself, enough with the big empty wall above the bathtub. It's time to admit that that space looks neglected and sad. I begin to mentally sort through my art stash to see if anything on hand could suit my purposes.
My family room in 2012. Pretty much everything has changed since then.
I'm glad the flower lives on.
With a jolt of surprise and a rush of certainty, I remember the big flower painting that used to hang in my family room. Somewhere around three in the morning - which is probably like ten p.M. To normal people - I dash out to the garage, pull it from storage, and hustle it upstairs to see if the proportions would work.
Yes. Perfection.
The bold colors of the original art still feel overwhelming to me but not to worry. Since I created the painting in the first place, I can easily rework it in different colors.
And that's what I do. A Saturday afternoon on the patio surrounded by a half dozen tubes of acrylic paint turns the bright red flower to pale pink, and dials the background back from blue to gray.
Now this is the scene that greets me when I walk into my bathroom, and it feels not chaotic or overwhelming but cheerful.
I hang the reinvented painting in place before dinner, and that night - again around three in the morning - as I bring in a trio of plants for their monthly watering session, I take in the scene and realize they are the perfect finishing touch.
I realize that my bathroom - and my bedroom too, for that matter - is still subdued and a far cry from the old days of orange polka dots and rainbow rugs.
But times have changed me, for better or for worse, and this still-neutral room now set off by a big bold flower expresses exactly who I am today.
The flower adds the touch of lightness that I am finally ready to embrace.
It's not bragging to say I was born with a green thumb.
The undeniable fact of the matter is that plant-tending is in my blood. Both sides of my family tree are jam-packed with successful farmers and gardeners galore.
My great-grandfather, Jacob Belz, worked his farm to great financial success. Not only did he put food on the table and shoes on the feet of his ten children, he also provided them with pianos, harps, violins, and all the lessons needed for his fleet of little maestros.
My paternal grandmother, Cecelia, was the kind of lady who tossed her carrot trimmings out into the corner of her city backyard and came back a month later to harvest a fresh crop. Every inch of her tiny plot was crammed full of enthusiastic growth. I particularly remember her impressive stretch of hens and chicks along the front sidewalk.
And Clara, my mother's mother, worked not only a twenty by fifty foot plot of vegetables but endless borders of perennials: black-eyed Susans, chrysanthemums, and peonies. My mother told me about the delphinium and rose spectacles that my grandmother had produced in her younger days - towering spectacles of blue and bowers of pink and white, all blooming against the odds of the scorching Michigan summer heat.
So it is that I come to my passion for houseplants with all the genetic odds stacked in my favor, but here's the thing:
No one - not even the Instagram fashionistas with the jungly living rooms and gorgeous green specimens from here to next week - has perfect houseplants.
No one.
Here is some happy news - over the winter, my Chinese money plants gave birth to a handful of pips - babies that grow from mom's roots and can be clipped to become independent plants. This one is still a bit young to leave its mother but three others graduated to their own pots.
Oh sure, every plant looks real nice when you bring it home from the nursery, after living its young life in ideal growing conditions and pampered by professionals for profit. But once that pretty bit of tumbuhan comes home and settles in for a while, things can and do go wrong. In fact, I've observed that for the first six to nine months at home, my plants all go through a phase of adapting to their new micro-climate - a very few thrive from the get-go, most experience a considerable hiccup and sorting out period, and there's always a handful that just struggle and die.
Even the most experienced and intuitive gardener must accept these imperfections as rules of the game, and do whatever they can to help their houseplants fight for survival.
And so it was that yesterday, my two younger daughters - whose thumbs are every bit as naturally green as mine - and I decided it was time to treat our plants to a spa day.
This is a prime pip, He makes me smile.
After the long and ridiculously dark Seattle winter, many of our plants had suffered some setbacks but we had just the remedies they needed.
A quick session with the pruning shears took care of browned leaves and dried out stems.
Cinnamon sprinkled on the soil cuts back on mold issues and also those pesky little flies that live on perpetually damp soil.
Fertilizer does much to lift the spring spirits of the houseplant so we offered ours an appropriate dose.
Now living independently in a bright blue pot, my biggest pip was kind of like your thirty-something son who still lives in the basement - it was high time for him to move out and get his own place. In the pot below him, a struggling sprig of prayer plant is getting one more chance to shape up and thrive.
In order to suit the plants' space needs and our aesthetic whims, we enjoyed a session of moving this plant into that pot, playing a bit of round robin using up all our extra potting soil and our inventory of extra pots.
We inspected the vulnerable ivies and jade trees for aphids. Ugh. Found another plant infested with those little white monsters and as much as we hate to do it, dumped that poor victim right into the compost. From some maladies there are no happy endings.
And horror of horrors, my third-born's anthurium was infested with worms. Worms! Tiny little deep red things, that not only crawled through the soil but wrapped themselves around the roots with more tenacity than my garden hose could overcome.
But not to worry, we rinsed all the soil off the roots, jammed the whole plant into a big cup of water and drowned the little suckers. Problem solved.
This is the plant with worms. I have no words.
By the end of their spa afternoon, our newly restored plants were singing in the sunshine, and we humans were well chuffed with our satisfied customers.
All of our plants are now in prime condition.
The minute the stay-at-home orders lift, we'll be ready and raring to welcome some new plants into our tender, loving care.
One rainy afternoon last spring, I found myself in a garden full of blooming allium.
Perfect spheres of tiny purple flowers, swaying gently on tall, rigid stems and looking like something straight out of Dr. Seuss.
Over the years - and decades - I've seen other allium now and then and thought how delightfully whimsical they are and how fantastic it would be to have some one day.
One day.
I never put a time stamp on that wish. Just a vague thought pushed to the middle background of my mind that eventually I'd get around to those allium.
I figured I had plenty of time.
Well. Something in my way of thinking has changed.
Because last spring, when I drew in my breath and smiled at those wonky purple flowers, a pair of words came into my mind.
Next year.
Yes. I told myself, no more "one day" thinking. There's no more time to waste. By next spring, I told myself, I will have my own allium blooming happily in my very own garden, and that's that.
And so I do.
I still have plenty of time in my life to dream more dreams and make them come true. But now I'm completely focused on the follow through.
Instead of saying, "One day," my mantra these days is "Now."
