“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by three spirits… “

I marked the Winter Solstice this past week, flanked by the Geminid and Ursid meteor showers. I have spent several frigid nights bundled up watching a clear, cold winter sky full of stars for those restless, errant ones streaking across the black. I was not disappointed, though on these magical winter nights of blue, silver, white and black I consider the shooting stars a bonus. The nights themselves are hauntingly lovely just to be stargazing.

Historically this is the time when folks gathered together to light candles and bonfires to push back the dark. It became a time to get together to celebrate the slow, gentle return of the light and pass the cold days and nights with loved ones as we held on for spring.

What we try not to acknowledge are the ghosts standing just outside the firelight, those we loved who are here but not here.  How over the years maybe our tribe has gotten smaller, while the shadows beyond the firelight have grown in number.  That we should sense this and the attendant melancholy makes sense, I believe the veil stays thin throughout the winter. Winter is a time for things to die back or go to sleep, of course spirits would be close by. What I would give to see them, not just out of the corner of my eye, or touch them, not just feel their presence like a phantom draft over my skin. I must be content with the sense that they are just beyond the firelight, watching and waiting. I light many winter fires in order to spend time with my lost loves…

Still, my winters aren’t all wistful and longing. Life writes a thousand stories in the snow and I am compelled to go out to read them.

I am a winter creature myself, the blood of Northern Europe flows in my veins. I waken in the winter when so much is bedding down. I love the cold, I love the stories written clearly in the snow by thousands of tracks and impressions. I love the silence and the stillness of it and also that there is still so much life happening. No other time of year am I able to see the impression of bird wings as they launched from soft snow, or the tiny prints of mice embroidering the edges of a meadow. There is poetry in the winter of the most subtle and delicate kind, exquisite poems about perseverance, resilience, adaptability and hardiness. The smallest birds are out in wind chills that have us under half a dozen layers. On warm days if you are very lucky you can find spotted salamanders on the snow (a rare but wonderful find!) enjoying the sun. If these seemingly fragile creatures can thrive in winter, surely I can too. They do not allow themselves to be compromised by things they cannot change, they don’t have the luxury of being melancholy. It simply does not occur to them to do anything other than keep on surviving.

Winter is a time when the balance of life and death is presented in stark relief. I can feel the chill winds around my soul and yet be enchanted by a world of prisms as sunlight illuminates the ice on the trees. It makes no promises, nor apologies for its harshness – it is up to me to write my own winter story of courage, resilience and patience.

Welcome Yule.

“In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he’s restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds…” – Mary Oliver

“You were the one who taught me,” he said. “I never looked at you without seeing the sweetness of the way the world goes together, or without sorrow for its spoiling. I became a hero to serve you, and all that is like you.”― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

August has arrived with hazy, humid days, crickets and afternoon thunderstorms. It is the height of summer and yet there are hints of autumn. The constellations shift, and here in the northeast you can see Scorpio again in the night sky. The mornings begin with a slight coolness that will soon become a chill. My beloved Perseids peak this week and the decades-long tradition of watching for them in the buzzing, whirring summer darkness is something I look forward to all year.

It has been a summer of does with their fawns along the banks of the rivers where we kayak and taking refuge in our backwoods, ospreys and eagles, giant primordial snapping turtles and hummingbirds bringing their youngsters to our nectar. Our milkweed bed hosts Monarch caterpillars (a small happiness against the harsh reality of their now endangered status) and the gardens we have spent years cultivating provide an oasis for dozens of creatures in a world that struggles to keep itself viable. We even had evening lightshows of fireflies – a rare sight these days.

We do what we can, no matter how small.

In this vein I find the same applies to my creative life. I’ve often puzzled over why it took so long for me to really find my artistic stride and be ready to share it. One of the ideas I struggled with for a long time was whether being an artist was self-serving or not.  Another was why create more “stuff”, who is going to care about it? Clearly, I had not yet found my true artistic voice or it would have drowned out those conflicts a long time ago. And maybe wanting to know “why now?” isn’t the point and I may never know. One thing I do know is the creative life I have now was born out of the ashes of unbearable grief and when it emerged it was made powerful by the idea of having a purpose beyond itself. It is the vehicle through which I can now “serve” something so much bigger than myself and, I hope, bring to those it resonates with the feeling of possibility and hope.  It acknowledges the grief so many of us feel at the state of the world and yet, what choice do we have but to keep creating and caring? We do what we can, no matter how small.

As I have begun to reach out for communities in which to share my work, I have discovered groups of people who think like me and there are more of them than I realized (yay!). Some are newer to this path than I and some much further along it and I have so much to learn from them. It has been wonderful to not feel isolated anymore, and the threads of old-world skills hold these communities together. People who seek a way of life that is simpler, less chaotic, more grounded and cyclical and have found ways to express their artistic vision in ways that tie it all together. I see it in the folks who spin wool, forage for plants to make dyes and cloth, weavers and potters and farmers. So I work my hands in wonderful cool clay, collect plants for dyes, learn to weave, learn more about gardening for food and pollinators- making my everyday world rich, deep and meaningful. My artwork allows me to support those who protect and heal wildlife and wild spaces and it all curves around me, gently pulling me out of the noise and angst – reminding me that how one lives is always a choice.

In the end it doesn’t matter “Why now?” – what is important is immersing in the “now” as a blessed renaissance of the self, from ashes and tears. Forged metal that has been through fire, water and pounded into form is stronger. Each step I take towards an old-world lifestyle grounds and settles me in a way I never thought possible. Creating works that help others do the same and care for what is precious and wild gives my work a greater purpose.  I am stepping into the past in order to step forward.

Do what you can, no matter how small.

“No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy–save one, and I thank you for that, too.”
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

“Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.” – Mary Oliver

I sit in my backyard, feeling the morning sun warm my face, listening to the echoing song of a wood thrush, smelling the scent of water and warming earth drifting over a light breeze. I remember the sound of lake water lapping the shore where we summered, the crack and pop of the fireplace on chilly mornings where my Da and I would have breakfast together before anyone else woke up,  the distant boom of thunder, the smell of rain in the air, the smell of Fall approaching.

I have vivid memories from my childhood of long, languid days exploring and discovering the natural world around me. My father was key to this inclination, having taken me on many hikes armed with Golden Nature Guides and showing me how to identify the plants, fungi and creatures that lived in that secret world around human existence. We raised tadpoles to frogs in an old wheelbarrow, fed the raccoons, collected skulls and other treasures left behind by the process of life. We rowed out onto lakes to watch the Perseid meteor showers every August. Once he even took apart our entire plumbing system in the basement trying to save a black snake that had gotten down the bathtub drain (he was successful). He scooped up spiders and put them outside, bought yellow lights for the back porch so the Luna Moths could find each other. His teachings were infused with a reverence for the natural world that became the bedrock of the person I would become. He nurtured my innate curiosity (that precious curiosity all children possess) by leaving art supplies on my bed for me to find and encouraging me to be careful and gentle but not fearful of the life that exists under logs and rocks and old wooden docks. My life was deeply influenced by Da’s alchemy, I remain steadfastly in love with nature.

This summer marks two years since the world went into lockdown in response to Covid-19. The Fall before the pandemic hit I had left a toxic job and started my own business which had done relatively well until the lockdown. While that enterprise did not survive, it was a much-needed escape hatch from a bad place and severe burnout. Then the world shut down – for the first time in 30 years I had time and those ethereal days from my childhood came back to visit. I spent many summer days sitting in the Adirondack chair out in the yard just watching life go on around me, literally watching the grass grow and it was glorious. I am an introvert by nature, and years of having to go out into the world had taken a heavy toll.  Being able to just STOP was a gift (though I was deeply aware of the collective sorrow flooding around me).  I have been loathe to let that life, where time is abundant and the pace deliberate, be taken from me and for me to be cast back into the chaos that is the modern world. Two years down the road and a myriad of adjustments later, I have managed to create a life somewhat more balanced – deep not wide.

I sit and watch what comes and goes, watch the light change into dapples and shadows as the sun makes its arc, feel the breeze on my face and my breathing deepens and I realize even now, with things much improved, how tense I still hold myself as I begin to let go and relax. My creativity no longer takes a back seat but is now central to my daily life.  I am guarding this new life fiercely, determined to find a way to stay balanced.

Even my work with the dogs has relaxed its pace. We still train – but more for enrichment and fun. I love that they can do the “work” and enjoy the game, should anyone ever need our help when we are out hiking, we know exactly what to do. But the “mission critical” intense pace I used to insist on is gone.  Our hikes have more pauses and rests, time for pictures and snacks. Time just being with them, savoring every moment.

These days I channel my energy into creative endeavors – Cù Ruadh is gaining momentum and I am excited to see it coming together. Being able to honor Casey’s memory in this way and at long last embrace an artistic life generates healing on every level. But it is not a frenetic, hectic momentum – creativity has ebbs and flows, cycles, weavings and often requires stillness to assume its many forms. So one day it may be writing for this blog, another making clay salamanders, yet another working on new music. What happens and when becomes instinctual and you must set the intellectual and linear aside in favor of webs, spirals and ripples.

Einstein’s Theory of Relativity determined that time is relative— the rate at which time passes depends on your frame of reference. Physicists will try to explain that time itself does not move but allows things to move through it, it is neither circular nor linear -it allows patterns to exist. If that is the case, then it is reasonable to suggest that building a frame of reference that suits you is vital to matching the pace of your life with the heartbeat of your spirit.  

“Nature does not hurry- yet everything is accomplished” – Lao Tzu

“Nous ne voyons jamais les choses telles qu’elles sont, nous les voyons telles que nous sommes.” – Anaïs Nin

(“We never see things as they are, we see them as we are.”) 

Spring arrives hesitantly here in New England. Pips emerge from thawed soil, only to endure nights still below freezing. They are tough and patient, they know when to conserve their energy to survive those cold nights and when to leap forward during the warm days. It is that balance between conserving and accomplishing humans are constantly (sometimes desperately) trying to achieve and maintain.  We create art in a myriad of forms celebrating the rhythms and patterns of a life we do not seem to be able to emulate ourselves with any consistency.  Such is the price of being human in a human world.

After decades of struggling in this way, I am closer to being able to maintain a life that follows these rhythms and patterns than I have ever been – and I guard the privilege fiercely. All the trials and errors had valuable lessons in them that I used to map my sky and ultimately find the right port. But there was a heavy price exacted each time. Still, I choose to be thankful that I am in a good space now and not think too much about time lost or mistakes made.

Mythology is full of references to the price that must be paid for “wisdom”, “enlightenment”,  or “self-knowledge”. When I look back over my life, I am reminded of the ancient Sumerian text “The Descent of Inanna” in which the Goddess Inanna, seeking knowledge, had to pass through 7 gateways, each gateway taking something from her, she is then killed by Ereshkigal (Goddess of the Underworld) and left to rot before being resurrected with the knowledge of life and death she had desired.  The symbolism is clear- everything that makes you who you think you are must be given away for you to be worthy and unattached- then to understand death you must experience it.

But (*spoiler alert* ) there is always a resurrection…

This spring saw this page change into Cù Ruadh, a major shift that has been buoyed and validated by a powerful sense of “flow”. Feeling the flow of a thing is essential. Whenever I have felt something begin to bottle up, stagnate or slow to a painful trickle I knew it was time to move on. It mystified me at times, how I could have been so sure I wanted something only to find that it was simply that I needed to learn vital existential lessons.  Likewise, like Inanna, there has been loss and sacrifice to get here – a fact I am aware of daily. Often, I felt that I just didn’t have enough “drive” to keep pushing, do the work, make it happen – when the truth was it was never meant to be my “thing”.  Just another cosmic teaching moment really.  Jumping from one rock to the next in order to get to some other side.

Going with the flow without even realizing it…

The things I am supposed to be doing now are the things that have always been holding on around the edges of my life while I went out into the world.  The artistic life I’ve always wanted but just couldn’t get to take root was waiting for the right moment. If I hadn’t experienced catastrophic loss then Cù Ruadh may still not be happening, it needs a foundation built out of purpose to exist. (“Ours is not to question why…”) That’s just the way it is. I can have my creative life now that it is entwined with the purpose of supporting those who fight for a gentler world day in and day out.  I honor Casey’s memory daily with my work and my work helps other beings who deserve to exist do so in her memory and that is a flow that will never weaken or disappear….

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud

was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”― Anais Nin

“People need a sacred narrative. They must have a larger sense of purpose, in one form or another, however intellectualized. They will find a way to keep ancestral spirits alive.” – E. O. Wilson

The Fibonacci Sequence (Golden Ratio), Sacred Geometry, the Music of the Spheres – we are always seeking some pattern or order to the universe and our lives. While there are indeed patterns that repeat and it does seem that biological life is ordered to a degree upon some essential designs – the one constant in life, as they say, is change. I would add to this, infinite variables. Einstein proposed that we all have lives that exist alongside each other in infinite variations and that sometimes they might touch. Maybe that is the source of déjà vu or dreaming about the same places over and over. Places that don’t seem to exist in our waking reality. Maybe it is where ghosts come from, shades of other realities breaking through.

Over the past year I have experienced a re-awakening of my creative self. I sought it out in the depth of grief and made it a spool of thread to find my way out of that maze. I’ve always been artistic, musical, a writer – and all of those passions have evolved over the years (as they should), tempered and marked by life’s triumphs and trials. The patterns found in nature have often been landmarks I could map my inner landscape by. I embrace, in a primal, visceral way, the elemental, the ancestral and the organic. Colors, textures, impressions and ancestral symbols drive my work these days and it is deeply connecting and fulfilling.

I’ve mentioned before how I feel life is a spiral (the Celts knew this well) and you do circle around but never touch the same place twice. After many turns of the wheel, I find myself circling around to the life I wanted in my 20s. Looking back I can see how I needed to go out into the world to try other things, hone my skills and test my resolve in tough times, always hoping that someday I would earn the right to go “home” again and claim that life.  The idea of the “hero’s journey” coined by Joseph Campbell makes perfect sense to me now – it is exactly what I ended up doing. Now, like Odysseus, I am home from many battles and adventures. I seek beauty, peace and family.

I have spent the winter making “Pleurants”- figures that date back to the Middle Ages whose purpose was to stand at gravesides and take over the task of grieving for a lost loved one. Making them was peaceful and soothing, one has even taken vigil at Casey’s side on her altar. I started a new Pleurant this week but while I worked something wild and magical happened – it didn’t want to be a Pleurant. The layers of clay I worked into the folds of its robe fanned out and curled as if caught in a strong wind. I went with it and by the time it was done my Pleurant had become a “Storm Elemental”. Where my Pleurants exhibit stillness and introspection, my Storm Elemental is all motion and intensity.

My own hands told me I was home.

“Fear whispers to the Warrior

“You cannot withstand the storm”

The Warrior whispers back…

“I am the Storm”

It is not lost on me that the timing of this moment aligns with the approaching anniversary of Lifa’s birth and Casey’s death this month. One full year, one full circle of seasons mourning for a loss and embracing a new life. Curling and spiraling within the Golden Ratio like a nautilus, a fern, the Milky Way…

Like magic.

I found my way out of the maze.

Telling the Bees…

“Do you know who I am?” she said, “I’m the one who taps you on the shoulder when it’s your time…” – Tori Amos, Beekeeper

There have been a lot of bees around lately.

Sure, the fall flowers are putting on their last display and overripe apples are irresistible. Still, a couple of times now bees have buzzed lazily around incense I’ve been burning outside and landing gently on my arm before floating away again. Not bee behavior I’m used to.

In Ireland “telling the bees” is the tradition of informing the hive when a family member has passed, and the belief that bees can carry messages to our departed for us.  If this is the case, then I will need many bees…and with the cold coming there isn’t much time…

After a rainy, humid summer – the air at last cools, the nights are clear and starry. I took the pups into the upper paddock last night to watch for the Draconid meteor showers. While I watched for shooting stars they played in the tall, dewy grass, racing in and out of the ring of light from my headlamp, growling at the impenetrable dark of our backwoods. An owl called close by and I turned to shine my light into a nearby tree, just in time to see her silently lift and glide into the woods, her hunting interrupted by the dogs’ playing. I did see a few meteors before going to bed. Just being outside for a little while looking at the stars settled me after a long week and I slept well. Soon it will get dark earlier and I will enjoy autumnal night hikes. The woods become a different world at night, old magic surfaces – it is a privilege to be out there to witness it.

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year, from the first faint thrill of it in August right up to the first snowfall. This year we have already had snow on Mt. Washington, but further south the trees are just starting to turn, gaining momentum with each chilly night. Our puppy Lifa is 9 months old now, filling out and maturing into a wonderful partner and friend. Quinn and Piper settle into the new pack dynamic and connect with Lifa in a deeper way now that her puppy antics are fading. With the passing of summer and the approach of winter it is hard not to think of those who have gone before, my parents, friends and teachers who have shaped my path along the way. There is so much I want to tell them. And so I ask the bees for a favor…

“When you lose the teacher you become the teacher,” I’ve heard it said. This year I myself am the teacher, working not just with my dogs but with 8th graders.  Working with kids is not all that different from working with dogs or horses, it is all about communication and patience.  Finding ways to convey something in a way that the individual in front of you can understand. And we are all wired differently, we all see things in a unique way.  As a teacher you need to be able to see things in a multitude of ways so you can work with a variety of approaches until you find the one that works for your “student”.

With my dogs, while I have used the same essential introductions and methods, I have not trained any of them the same way. They have each learned in their own unique way and showed me what they are most motivated by. Quinn never did take to searching, but she loves to herd. Piper loves to search but needs lots of support and encouragement, he lacks confidence in his own abilities. Lifa is just now showing us what she likes to do. She may be a “late bloomer” but has immense potential when she does settle on the work she loves the most.  For me, the most important part of being a teacher is laying tools before a student and stepping back to see what they will do with them, not imposing my idea of what should happen.

My teachers have all gone on to the ultimate journey and I remain to assume the role. I am aware of the potential to influence and shape another life and do my best to “be the person my dogs think I am”. Not always succeeding, but nurturing an awareness of my intentions, my motivations and the way I need to move through the world.  I am getting older myself, there are more of my loved ones beyond the veil than on this side of it. But there is no denying the austere beauty of this season and the veil thins so maybe, just maybe, I will be granted a precious glimpse of them.

Maybe the bees will tell them “Thank you” for me.

“I did not believe because I could not see. Though you came to me in the night. When the dawn seemed forever lost. You showed me your love in the light of the stars.” – Loreena McKennitt, Dante’s Prayer

Yesterday David and I took the pack up into one of our favorite meadows, a gentle hike with one great hill that rewards you with a glorious view of the Monadnocks. In late summer this meadow shimmers in a sea of goldenrod flowing down to the horizon, meeting the sky, and creating an exquisite frame for the mountains. As you work your way up, you are immersed in the wildflowers that herald the coming brocades of fall foliage that will be woven with plants passing by. The air was crisp and cool, a wonderful breeze caressing us from the west. After days of intense humidity and heat it was like falling into your favorite lake for an invigorating swim. Hawks rode the westerly thermals, practicing for their October migration. Monarchs and dragonflies visited each blossom, flitting about without concern for the shortening days and chilly nights ahead. Some color brushed random treetops already, but the wild grapes are still unripened green and the days still get very warm towards noon.

I have always loved the time from August to first snowfall. I have always been passionately in love with autumn, something about its grand flourish before the short, dark days of winter is intensely poignant to me. As a child, August was when we took our family vacation to a lake in the Belknaps and that place ignited a deep and slow-burning magic in me that lives to this day. It was where I could see my true self reflected in the clear lake water, images I would hold onto fiercely the rest of the year. There is something about this season, with all its nuances and foretelling, that is captivating. August signals the waning that quietly follows the waxing of spring into summer.

Yesterday was particularly touching to me, as I hiked through chest-high goldenrod and asters, I remembered that this meadow was one of the last places I would hike with Casey before she became too ill to venture out with us. She loved it here, leading the way as always. I felt her with us yesterday, watching little Lifa navigate tangles of wildflowers and charge joyously down the overgrown path. Life is a spiral, curving around but never touching the same spot again. There have been so many tectonic shifts this past year, I curve around to a spot that is familiar but forever changed.  We are once again wading through fields of gold, with a new pack member…also with a new purpose and direction in life overall.  

As with the meadow around us, some things in my life have passed already, some are dying and some will overwinter to emerge in the spring. My focus shifts (comes full circle in fact) back to a creative life, one I had to make somewhat dormant to go out into the world and do things that I needed to do. Now, I have seen those things through, and my reward is being able to “come home” to the life I always wanted in the first place. As a result, NorthSAR will shift and become something new, incorporating this creativity into a new kind of service, one that will also honor Casey’s memory as it supports new endeavors. This blog will expand in scope, this website re-branded with new offerings.  I’m catching a thermal in a sense, and letting it carry me to where I need to be.

So keep an eye out, as the light changes, the leaves turn, the nights grow chilly, the constellations shift to map a winter sky…the journey is far from over, but we are off the edge of the map now…

“listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go” – e. e. cummings

My husband and I went kayaking last weekend and being out on the water again was deeply soothing.  There were the wild swans, the huge bald eagle nest (with juvenile in it), Great Blue Herons and assorted ducks of course, always wonderful to see. Then the smaller, no less wonderful observations- the snapper swimming just below the surface, the thousands of iridescent damselflies and dragonflies, a clump of wild iris hiding behind cattails, curled feathers floating by.  I am planning to train Lifa to be in the kayak with me to share this peaceful drifting and observing. Casey used to go with me and would sit watching the world go by as we bobbed on gentle currents. She would nose the air, picking up the smell of water and all the scents it carries with it (quite a lot in fact). It wasn’t on land and she wasn’t in a car, I can only guess how this altered her perception of what was around her.  From what I could tell, she enjoyed it. I know I did. I hope Lifa will too, if she decides she likes changing her view of things it will be one more special thing we can share (Quinn and Piper just like swimming too much to stay in the boat). But there is nothing quite like bearing witness to the life going on around you and having a skipper to share that with. It is all about perception, which can often shift perspective leading other aspects of life to become more of a calm, attentive exploration.

One of the stranger training sessions I had with my first search team involved old bones being scattered in a dirt parking lot and we had to locate them. It is fascinating what the mind does when asked to do something odd, it either “doesn’t see” the objects or decides they are something else, a piece of wood or cardboard. Because, after all, it isn’t every day you are asking your brain to find bones in a parking lot.  As one of my tracking instructors is fond of saying “you have to learn to see what is there not what you think is there”. This is most definitely a learned skill for most of us, we have lost the art of seeing what is before us, details, subtleties and nuances that would have informed our ancestors many generations ago what the landscape had to tell them. Therefore, it is quite possible to walk right past human remains because your mind, needing to label things in a context that makes sense, decided it looked like a pile of leaves and not a plaid lumberjack shirt. It takes a fair amount of practice to start re-mapping how you see the world, in that sense it is like meditation. Your mind needs to be quiet and calm, open yet attentive.

I think of all the skills I had to learn in doing search work, learning to “see what is there” tops the list as the one skill that has had the most impact in every aspect of my life. Navigation being a close second. As you re-wire your brain towards focused mindfulness something magical happens, “there’s a hell of a good universe” out there for those who learn to pay attention. Once you start that process your way of thinking changes, your perceptions, your instincts and ultimately – your way of moving through your world. Partner that with solid navigation skills and you are never going to be confused, caught off guard or lost again – physically or existentially.

Well, most of the time…

I am still shattered by the loss of Casey, but I see aspects of her in Lifa and feel like she is still with us.  I still miss my Da, but the peace and openness I feel when hiking brings him close. He was an avid hiker when he was a young man and I inherited that from him. I need to hike and be in the wild as much as I need oxygen. The losses are what throw me in life, but the rest…incidental, annoying details of a world reduced to soundbytes, pixels, noise, opinions and free floating angst – not so much.

When you have learned to see what is there naturally your interpretation of what is there will be correct. For me this has been profound and very grounding. Life has not ceased hurling curve balls at me, or being whimsical, infuriating or just downright ridiculous, but I can read it for what it is and make decisions accordingly.  You learn how to navigate your way out of the maelstrom and find the quiet, secret spaces. There’s a hell of a good universe next door, just around the bend in the trail, just over that ridge, or deep into that estuary… so let’s go!

“Attention is the beginning of devotion.” – Mary Oliver

Despite some strange weather (even for New England) the trees are budding and the landscape softens.

A dozen shades of green, mixed with pink, white and yellow blur the harsh edges of winter and we have warm days to bask in the sunlight. The deep breath of winter lets go.

Lifa has also been a breath of spring in our home. A new life, insatiably curious and enthusiastic, adds whimsical, affectionate energy to the house and no one is immune to her charms.

Yet, despite all the shenanigans and lessons of puppyhood, there is a depth to her that hints at an “old soul”. Her gaze can be measured and intense, she is composed and confident- an unusual trait in a 12-week old puppy. She learns amazingly fast and loves being challenged. Keeping up with her and continually raising the bar for her will be almost a full-time job!

Quinn and Piper are devoted (if sometimes annoyed) and play with her constantly.  A new pack dynamic forms and it is clear that as she matures, Lifa will assume leadership of the group.  She has all the qualities of an Alpha, she is intelligent, measured, devoted, even protective.

The other night we had a bear in our yard, Quinn and Piper were barking wildly at the windows and instead of joining them, Lifa jumped up on me and faced the window, growling low and soft. This little 14 lb puppy was not seeking me out for reassurance but staking her claim to her person and warning off the intruder outside! I told myself when Lifa came home that I would not compare her too much to Casey, but I couldn’t help remembering when Casey charged bears on two occasions to protect me. A 40 lb redhead challenged a 300 lb bear without hesitation. 

The following morning I took Lifa out to scent where the bear had been and we were lucky enough to find some scat, which I also showed her. She sniffed it, then grew very quiet and looked around growling softly again. The attitude of a mature, strong female.  Suitably cautious and assessing, but not afraid.

As she gets older I have long hikes and explorations to look forward too, training and nurturing our relationship as we learn to work together, and having a new, bold partner at my side. But for now, I’ll take the teething, belly rubs, stealing my socks and all the other escapades that come with raising a puppy. It is a role I cherish and am in no rush to get past.  Even old souls need to experience childhood.

“If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there.” – Lewis Carroll

Spring has arrived.  The sun warms us, the light lasts further into the evening, and the snow is just about gone. It was a rough winter, inside and out.  Finding that “invincible summer” Camus wrote of was next to impossible.

Then Lifa was born.

There are those who believe in karma or destiny, and those who believe in mere coincidence. The series of events and signs that led to Lifa becoming part of our pack is hard to dismiss. The most poignant of these was meeting her on the very same day that I first met Casey 11 years before. This happened without planning or even the realization until the day of (thanks to a FB memory). But it felt important once it was discovered. What are the odds? That 11 years TO THE DAY after meeting my Red Queen I would meet yet another spirited redhead and make another connection, having lost my Red Queen. It was a beam of light penetrating my grief that I could not ignore. I couldn’t help but feel that some kind of universal balancing was creating this opportunity.  Or that maybe Casey had something to do with it, that beam of light was her illuminating my way out of a dark place.  Pointing the way home, as she had done so many times during her life.

So, we welcomed Lifa – whose name is the Icelandic word for “Life” – a week ago and have not been disappointed. She is bold, intelligent, and loving. She is also well ahead of any curve she should be on at 8 weeks. Within days of her arrival, she mastered the stairs to our 2nd floor (all 13) up and down, knew her name, and bonded with Quinn and Piper, forming a new pack that is lifting them out of their sadness and giving them new purpose. Their playing is spontaneous and joyous, though they are also vigilant and protective of their new charge. It means everything to me to see Quinn and Piper re-engage with their world, assume new roles, and become light-hearted again.

It will be a year of firsts, at both ends of the spectrum. Our first year without Casey, our first year with Lifa. We took her on her first hike Sunday. Dwarfed by Quinn and Piper she did not hesitate to run down the trail with them, exploring all the strange new scents and sights that her world has to offer. As with children, having a puppy encourages you to see these things anew yourself, triggering a deep sense of renewal and wonder.  Hikes with my pups are where the real bonding takes place, as we share discoveries back and forth, romp and nurture the working partnership that is priceless beyond measure.

It is with deep gratitude and relief that we embrace the coming of spring. Healing a little each day as warmth and color return to the earth, basking in the beauty of a new life in our home. Whatever Lifa and I end up doing together, that journey has just begun and is full of promise.

There will never be another Red Queen, but what we have now is our Shieldmaiden. Wherever we are headed, any road will get us there.