On any given moment as I traverse our beautiful Sonoma square a dozen emotions can rise – amazement that the square is unscathed, sadness for the many children who lost their homes but still decorate the square with their art, hope for the world if one community can find a way through devastation with grace, fear at the ease with which our worlds can erupt, guilt for still having a home, impotence at not knowing how to help more.

This is real life. These feeling are appropriate in Puerto Rico, in Sudan, in Syria and Houston.  The guilt and impotence could rise in a walk in Oakland, where the homeless camps have grown near the freeways, in Santa Rosa where miles have been destroyed by fire, in Iran, where the earthquake left thousands homeless.

What do we do?

Write a check? Get on a plane across the world to volunteer? Pressure congress to treat Puerto Rico like is it part of our nation (which it is). Serve lunch at a shelter? All of the above?

This year, I wrote some checks, volunteered a little, sent letters to congress occasionally and prayed. It feels meager, even miserly, in the face of my still-standing home, my full larder, my relatively healthy body.

I  am ready to take on a larger burden. Except I don’t think it will be a burden. I know from the past that real service is good food for my soul, and I will feel not burdened but lightened by sense of purpose, even if it is a relatively small purpose.

There are so many among us who dedicate their lives to protecting our planet, to serving the poor, to fighting fires metaphorically in every part of the world.

There were times in my life that I counted myself among them. Serving homeless families for long days in a basement of a church. Sleeping on a sidewalk for months in protest of our state’s investments in South Africa.  Taking care of twelve little girls at a time as they experienced nature for the first time, far from their homes in the city.  Shepherding dozens of teens through the perils of college applications, without a parent. Perusing laundromats for low income young mothers who might need help, and offering them healthcare. Taking a group of five year old in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco to get their first library card. They were the clearest, most meaningful and joyful times of my life.

This past Saturday night in the Sonoma Square, the community gathered and celebrated the lights being lit on the square. A young girl took the stage and sang to us. Amongst the scent of hot chocolate, cider and wine. Despite the noise of running children, traffic and many humans in a small space.  In a pretty white dress and with a brave smile, she sang boldly, offering a beautiful, heart opening rendition of Silent Night.

She had lost her home, but dedicated the song to her neighbor, who had saved her dog.

She is my inspiration as I roll up my sleeves for the next opportunity to serve. We don’t stop singing the face of devastation. When we lose our home, we thank God for our dog. And in the chaos and jumble of life, we return to our faith, which for her is the story of a baby being born on a cold winter’s night.

For personal reasons, this week I sought solace in the words of others who have faced loss by addiction. I found a series of obituaries, publicly denouncing the epidemic we face.  Elegies, written by the grieving, furious and anguished families.

Some are shocked, raging against fate, others speak of surrender. They can almost acknowledge a relief. The night mare is over, for themselves as well as their child, their sibling, their friend.

These unknown poets attempt to create sense in the midst of a senseless loss, to warn, to plead, to express their outrage.  They describe their fallen angels and lost souls. The many souls who have crossed over, in the throes of opioid addiction.

They ask us to stop and pay attention.

I wrote my own poem for the people we’ve lost this way, stringing together the words of the aching families, who found the strength to hold up a lantern though their dark forest of grief.

Obituary Solace

You, spent your last evening talking with your parents on their front porch.

. . .loved to take the family dog on long walks.

… had dazzling blue eyes and a mischievous spirit.

…were a mother, doing the best you were able.

You are finally at peace.

You, had the light of an intelligent and inquisitive spirit.

… had the pleasure of loving a beautiful woman.

… had laughter that could be heard for miles.

You are a beautiful soul, a philosopher and poet.

You, were able to meet and hold your newborn niece.

…left behind your five year-old son.

… loved your beautiful nine month old daughter.

You were rediscovering the beauty in life.

You, grew up a happy, spirited child.

… said visiting the Salvador Dali Museum was the highlight of your life.

… rescued pit-bulls, and loved all creatures.

You had a heart as big as your beard.

You, are reunited with your brothers who awaited your arrival to heaven.

…  loved your little dog, Roo.

… quoted lines from Shakespeare as soon as you could talk.

… graduated from college, proud, in 2016.

You had dreams.

Heroin, will steal your baby girl right out of your arms.

Heroin, more powerful than the words a mother could say to her dying son.

Heroin has claimed your body.

But there is no doubt that heaven claimed your soul.

You were the light in every room,

…  loved Harry Potter and red lipstick.

… stitched your dreams in the back of a pillow.

      You had just found the love of your life.

We, tried everything.

. . . are heart broken.

… have a hole in the family we cannot fill.

. .. loved you with every fiber in our bodies.

    We will break the silence.

. . .

Spring comes late this year.

Slipping in between the sheets just when I’d lost all consciousness, had shifted from a long winter malaise to a true coma. I can barely rouse myself to open my eyes as the room grows brighter.

My brain crawls from its winter shell, not unlike a hideous sticky butterfly after months in a chrysalis state. Only the butterfly is ravenous and her wings are tattered.

November was bleak. Like a prescient, irritating, bitter guest at the dinner table, predicting doom and sharing poor news.

Locking the windows on the last of the fall’s bounty. Finishing the Cabernet without sharing, cackling at racist jokes.

December was a long day with a narcissistic friend.

The exhausting false cheer of the worst possible season. The endless fatty meals, poorly planned conversations, missed connections, dropped lines.

The loneliness of the solstice, the boozy denial of the morning after. The crawl towards the always awkward birth of a new year.

January is best not spoken of.

February was worse.

Like a break up with an angry borderline, each day bringing its new agenda from hell. Cold hands, slippery wet steps, smelly dogs, tread-less tires on a sleek road, dark mornings, cream curdling in lukewarm coffee.

A month of shit.

March was still tough. Think of a long weekend with the relatives, the uncle on a bender, the cousins out of jail, a flatulent dog, cold spaghetti and stale beer.

You thought there would be an end of the madness, a bottom to the pit, the friend who came to rescue you from the relatives. But she never came.

Now, April had its moments. Early on there was a teasing wink from the sun. A smattering of flowers and begrudging smiles from strangers at the gas station.

But the rains came back, as if the bipolar x -boyfriend, institutionalized back in February, had broken out and returned.

This time there was no energy to bring cheer to the situation, to praise the end of the drought, to make the most of the mud on my shoes, to don a cheery scarf against the dampness on the back of my neck.

Fuck this, I thought, watching my windows smear.

My ever eloquent end-of-the-winter blues.

But today, Goddamn it, the sun is shining. April 30^th, and it feels like the world has decided it’s heliocentric after all .

At the beach, the  puppy rolls ecstatically in broken mollusk shells, chases frightened children and barks at the surf. Yee haw, her bright eyes say to me.

I contemplate the possibility of summer’s ease.

Flip flops, long evenings, candle wax dripping on the picnic table,  a white dress over burned shoulders, berries plucked casually from the bushes along the path.

I watch the sun setting over the water, and feel myself waiting anxiously at the door for summer, my soul mate.

Like the repeatedly abandoned lover, I always take him back.

He rounds the corner, a jacket thrown casually over his shoulder, hope teasing in his smile.

“Miss me?”

Yes, you bastard, I did.

My dogs ran away one hazy afternoon, when I’d headed out for a consoling long walk through the marshes. I bent down to tie my shoe, and cell phone fell to the ground. I reached for it, placing the leashes on the ground next to me, at the same moment a random hare bounded by. I noted the strength and ferocity of his springing legs.

My shepherd mama and her daughter were off, running like they were race dogs and the shot had been fired.

I screamed for them to stop.

Mama dog didn’t turn. The puppy glanced back at me, her eyes seeming to say, sorry, but hell man it’s a rabbit. Their tails wagged as they plunged into the high brush. The marsh is a beautiful but eerie bird protection area stuck between a dubious part of the San Francisco bay and a highway. I watched the tall grasses move as the rabbit, and then the dogs, disappeared.

This area is both totally public and yet uncomfortably creepy. The mud sucks at your feet, there is random debris peeking out from the bushes – wet blankets, condoms, bottles – and it is full of places a psycho might hide. I never worry about the pyschos when I walk here, because I have my dogs.

Only now I didn’t.

That’s ok, I told myself, the sun was peeking in and out of the clouds, and I had hours before my next appointment. I would find them in a minute. Or a few.

I jogged down the main wide path, and then smaller, less trodden ones, yelling the dogs’ names until my throat grew dry.

I refused to think about all the worries that had sent me out for a long walk in the first place: some of the people I loved were hurting, and others were dying. We had real estate woes and career blahs, and a mundane to-do list a mile long. My car had no oil, my hip no lubricant, and my novel remained un-edited. Most of all, a frightening series of political events had led to the rapid decline of our civil liberties.

No, I would focus on finding my dogs.

A half hour in, the sky opened, rain descending across the marsh in sheets.

It’s Ok, I reassured myself as the cold water slipped down my collar. You’ve been soaking wet before and so have the dogs. Just keep going. My yells were dampened with the rain, they would never hear me.

After an hour, I found the pup, tangled in a tree, crying. She squealed and licked my cheeks as I untangled her leash and led her out. If she knew where her mother had gone to, she wasn’t talking. She pulled me towards the car.

Another hours later, still searching, I questioned for the first time if I would ever see the Mama dog, Cora, again.  She’d always had a wild streak. She’d been rescued from a field outside of Fresno when we adopted her. Maybe she had decided to return to her roots? I pictured her hitch hiking up 101, her ears cocked for a good ride.

She is also a ridiculously friendly dog to humans. She looks like Kujo, but if a burglar came to the house she might lick him to death. Perhaps she had gotten acquainted with one of the homeless folks from the marsh, and headed off for a more transient life? I could accept that scenario, if I just knew she was OK. I prayed. I bargained with God. I made a list of the reasons he owed me. I took it back, and pled my case differently, with less arrogance. I threw out a call to my angels, to Alla, Shira, and Mother Marie. I try to keep in touch with all of them, play my odds. But no-one answered.

Eventually, I took the pup home. She was wet and tired, hungry and dismayed. So was I.

I returned to the marsh alone to renew my search in the late afternoon. The rain had abated, but my voice couldn’t seem to project anymore, my throat too dry and sore. A small cold had blossomed into a flu-like event over the course of the day, and each step took effort. I imagined being on a Nyquil commercial, drinking a magic potion and being put to bed. My head throbbed and my fingers grew numb.

At one point. I heard a bark in the distance that I was sure was my dog Cora’s, distinct amongst the other dog barks. I ran towards it, elated. But of course the paths were muddy as shit.

Have you ever fallen into the cold black watery mud of a marsh? It’s quick sand, only colder, and it smells like farts of a rhino that ate rotten eggs. The slime threatens to consume you, leaving not a trace.

I scraped, clamored and yanked myself up.  My joints ached.  My arms seemed almost futile. Where was that upper body strength the yoga teacher promised? I found a stump and used it to pull myself out, slowly, my back covered in black sludge.

I lied on the ground, recovering. The sky was doing the beautiful thing it does in the winter, after a rain. Pink and purple clouds shifted across the dusky blue background, like dancers in gorgeous dresses, flirting with the sinking sun on one side, the rising moon on the other.  I stayed still. I watched.

I decided not to cry about my worries over my children, our lack of a housing plan, our president, my clients hard lives, my throbbing knee, and most of all my missing dog. I would not to get up either.  I watched the sky like it was the best show in town, which it was. When it grew dark, I finally gave up, and walked my wet ass back to the car.

I went home and did what I had to do: fed the pup again, took a shower, took a client call. I kept in touch with the police, the humane society, and the family. I prepared for the worst, and let the pup fall asleep on my chest, both of us scared.

Eventually, my phone rang. Did I have a dog named Cora? She had wandered into Cost Plus, and the staff were a little worried about her.

“She’s real cold, and she looks like she sure misses you.”

She better, I thought. Little fucker.

Here’s a picture of my girl, waiting in the store while I high tailed it over there.

Back in the car, Cora shaking in the front seat next to me, I finally cried. She leaned over and licked my tears, remorseful. I took her home.

Here’s my life lesson. When you think everything sucks, it probably does. But tilt your head up anyway, and take note of the world’s beauty.

Be present for the sky, the sun, the rain, the clouds and the darkness. Get out of your own head.

If you don’t, the universe will knock you on your ass, dip you in mud, and leave you feverish on the banks of the river, until you open your eyes and pay attention.

Life Lesson #2. Don’t put down the leash, even for a second, in rabbit territory.

Darn Rabbit.