Just the other day on a warm sunny afternoon I requested that Andie sit while I explained to her what a great important historical event had occurred in our country. I used words such as coup, fascism, dominionism, racism, misogyny, moron, primitives and so on, before explaining beautiful words like Constitution, democracy, human rights, the Amendments, civil rights, justice and many more suited to a positive attitude. I further explained that a terrible disaster had come upon us, but it was not as bad as the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs and that this time the dinosaurs had won.
Suffering the disability of being an ex-pedantic academic I further pontificated on how one, little dogs included, could make sense of it all through a considered Situationalist dialectic as it is applied to Guy Debord’s ‘Society of the Spectacle.’ Poor Andy, she tried her best to keep up, just waiting for me to explain that many of these pointy-head terms actually meant ‘treat.’
She yawned, reminding me of the atmosphere of my long ago lectern days and lay down positing that a good tummy rub was really the best approach. I could tell from her big brown eyes that being a retired pedantic emeritus was not in the least very cool and that I should stick to treats dispensing , gardening, and making soup like all the other old men bumbling through the joyful parts of their singularity, rather than trying to normalize ‘shit happens’ with colorful descriptions than in the last analysis, disguises the true anatomy of ruin.
And so it goes, Andie and I have returned to our Brigadoon world of one day at a time embracing home, hearth, living simply and immensely grateful for the lot of it. No more lectures, explanations, excuses, or impotent sorrows over vast events beyond our tiny interventions. Our world to my mature view and Andie’s little dog’s accustomed care is natural, simple, a paradigm of familiar habits and comforting retreats, attentive chores, dog treats, tummy rubs, walks around the block, occasional visits which are episodes of excitement for both of us, and, oh did I mention dog treats.
The disaster that looms over our flailing Republic does not seem to touch the beauty of our little village in the spectrum of a stunning autumn advance. This is the season of grasses, which flourish in their fine new growth covering everywhere they appear with a luxuriant green, soft texture offsetting the burnished colors of autumn leaves.
Andie and I thrive in the earthy garden. I dig in the fertile dirt getting covered with it…head to toe in happy relief that life is still possible on its own terms, while I struggle to stand, and crawl about the spaces, planting, weeding and clipping. Andie similarly has her diversions depending on the seasons hunting apples, plums, trail bark and now, visiting the empty tomato barrels where she once snatched low hanging sweet gems from the Big Girl plant. It is here that Andie and I are closest to the truth and I relinquish and surrender my projections of future shock and morbid tales of Middle Earth with its creeping surrender to Sauron, the withering hand of darkness.
Surrounding us is the breathtaking unfolding of the natural world and stands in place of abstract hope as the apex of what is real and true, nature ever changing.
The garden has never known such a season. Rain has infused it with new life. All the rose transplants have a spurt of reddish new leaves and the transplanted pink Spirea has burst out, twice it former size. The Daphne’s are five weeks early, already in semi bud bloom.
I hope the victims of Sauron experienced the darkness as Andie and I have lately. The super moon in its perigee-sygyzy was thrilling and out of the control of human carbon units given to destruction and mayhem.
It appeared some days before its maximum perigee, so bright that it’s dazzling exception to the usual moon madness in our house was duly noted as its radiance seeped through the openings between the vertical blinds and rose in the east beyond our bedroom window. That first night on our 3:00 Andie break a heavy autumnal night fog had settled over the village so saturated with moisture that I felt that ‘ping’, ‘ping’ of tiny wet drops against my face as we moved from doorway to driveway. The fog seemed glowing and magical, because of the diffuse moon light and I thought, ‘maybe this is Brigadoon after all.’
On the day of its full glorious rise, the cold, clear night air presented as the path of the moon goddess Amaterasu as she simply dazzled the soul with her brilliant presence. At a lost to describe the color of moonlight, I could only recall a boyhood memory of the enjoyment of looking through blue cellophane and thinking, ‘moonlight.’
The Japanese I know once thought that moonlight was blue and thus it was explained to me the desire of having blue florescent lights in houses. What once I thought an abomination of domestic taste, was in fact an exquisite approximation of moonlight illuminating a room and thus the recall of poetry such as haiku ennobling rooms by association:
my bones, too,
The thief left it behind:
at my window.
Andie and I had a heartfelt discussion about the moon. I posited that it was the home of the moon goddess and thus a lovely feminine grace inhabiting the sky to appeal to our more elegant and gentle natures. Andie insisted that she heard as a kennel puppy that a rabbit lived in the moon and was not necessarily a nice one either. I asked her if that rabbit looked like this one:
Andie said ‘Yes, that’s him.’ To which, I assured her that any stories coming from Brietbart were lies and distortions and that Brietbart’s rabbit was character assassination, insisting that actually the rabbit in the moon was technically a bunny and most likely the home of this wonderful celebrity bunny, who was much loved around the world:
Fortunately, the subject of the Easter Bunny did not come up and Andie seemed settled on the idea of Bugs Bunny living in the moon. I hope dear reader that you will be patient with my dog dad narrations concerning Jungian archetypes, but I do want Andie to have the right mind set as she goes forth in this troubled world of ours.
As for the troubled world, it seems as if a heavy quiet has settled over the village and our street, except for one thing. The five Truck Mart diesels leave for work about 7:00 in the morning and because our first freeze has come, they warm up for about ten minutes before taking off down the street leaving rumbling sounds and noxious fumes to declare the day.
The only other news to report is that someone or persons stole the cat lady’s new tennis shoes and boot socks, or so the large white sign with bold magic marker announcements say, ‘RETURN these at ONCE, or there will be consequences! ‘ My guess is that she left them on her porch and a passing needy thought they were free because next door, the Methodist Church does that all the time.
We live in troubled times, but Andie doesn’t know that, which makes me grateful that our little bubble of provincial life remains safe for the time being.
I noticed the last rose
A peace rose
Bloomed aside the garden gate.
Andie did not notice
Chased bubbles in the swift moving water of the side gully.