Taking a stab at Haiku. I know it's not an offfiical-type Haiku, given that I'm not really juxtaposing two different things, but whatever. This is my fall-fevered attempt!

Autumn's Kiss

Autumn's kiss turns veins
to Christmas chile, red-green
love in Santa Fe

Don't we all just live on eye candy? Until I have time to return to the writing desk, may this inspire juicy art and joyful life!

The latest edition to our Guardian: Cemeteries and Their Sentinels project is entitled Memory of Wings. I could really use your feedback on this one. Feel free to leave a comment here, or go to the Guardian Group page. I've started a discussion there about this piece in particular. This is the first writing I've done for the book.

Memory of Wings is inspired by a stone girl I met in an overgrown cemetery in the Czech Republic...

Memory of Wings

I came upon her
late in the day
at the edge of the path,
alone. 
The Armless Maiden
The Wingless Angel
whatever one would call her
there she was
stranded.
Kneeling at the graveside
eyes turned toward heaven
beseeching
or accusing
no way to tell.
Hands and arms
crumbled to dust
and I am reminded
of the fairy-tale girl
betrayed by her father
given away like chattel.
The daughter
sacrifices her hands,
surrenders them to bloody stumps,
rather than be bought
and traded
like so much
lumber.
But this one--
this forgotten girl
at the edge of the path
has lost more than hands.
Rising from her back
rusty bones that once held
wings.
The twisted iron
hovers behind her
as if it remembers
flight.
The crumbling remnants
reach toward heaven
beseeching
or accusing
no way to tell.
And I am reminded
of another fairy-tale girl
not so long ago
now, even
somewhere
going about her days
wingless
grounded by thoughts
of Too Much
and Not Enough
freedom traded
for normalcy
for Fitting In
for Right and Proper
because it's
expected.
All of us
everywhere
driving in traffic
waiting in line
laying in bed
or standing at the
edge of the path
alone in the wood
considering her self in stone.
This woman
that woman
haunted every night
by the aching in
her back
and the one
in her soul
the ache
that contains
the memory of wings.
********************************
Photo and words ©Angi Sullins. Thank you for not reprinting without permission

I love living in Taos. There are so many reasons for my adoration, but let's start with August. I know, I'm a wee bit late, but let me tell you about August.

It's yellow. The whole town breaks out in fits of glorious yellow. Not so great for the sinuses, but for visuals, it's hard to beat. "Oooh! Look at that! *Achoo!* And those flowers! *Achoo!* And that field! *Achoo!*"

Some things are worth suffering through. 

Now, it's not the yellow of September or October - not the yellow of fall foliage, where the Aspens turn gold and the mountains are covered in patches of leafy sunshine. No, this is summer's last hoorah, a blast of lemonade-daydream-sunflower goodness.

Allow me to give you a glimpse...

So here's the deal. Many of us have discovered, in one way or another, the Law of Attraction. We've all been living with it for eons, but many of us are just discovering the myriad of ways we can harness it for benefit, while recognizing the vast array of ways we use it (consciously or unconsciously) for deficit. We've studied and learned and are now neck-deep in the practice of holding positive thoughts, emotions and vibrations concerning our goals and dreams. But, if you're like me, you might be just the teensiest bit disappointed once you've meditated and visualized on a goal for months and months, only to discover it still out of reach. Now, “disappointed" can be experienced differently from person to person. For me? It involves a lot of peanut-butter-and-chocolate ice cream consumption, days and days of pajama wearing, long hours on the couch watching reruns of Cold Case Files, while plucking out leg hair-stubble one at a time, the way frustrated birds pull out their feathers in an act of defiance and distress.

Byron Katie (author of Loving What Is) tells me to love What Is. Eckhart Tolle (author of The Power of Now) tells me to embrace the present moment as if I had chosen it, to treat this now as my friend. I love them for that. Their words of wisdom have been a life buoy, keeping me afloat in a mind full of fear and frustration. But then there's Mike Dooley (author of Notes from the Universe) and Rhonda Byrne (author/editor of The Secret) telling me I can have anything I want, if only I focus on it consistently and positively, seeing myself as already having it. So do I accept the present moment or seek to transform it? If I embrace What Is, am I giving up what is Yet To Be? How do I allow life to be as it is, loving all its warty, swarthy details, while endeavoring to morph it into something more attractive, more appealing to my authentic, abundant self? Should I be accepting? Or assertive?

Along my spiritual path, I’ve had moments of clarity when a sharply focused insight points a directive hand toward (using the words of Abraham-Hicks, authors of The Law of Attraction) my energetic escrow, those vibrant dream-come-true realities we're all marching toward. Then there are the moments of confusion and fear: muddled, worried thoughts that gnaw at the base of my confidence, undermining all efforts for transformational living. I recently had a moment like this.

OK, I've had many moments like this during the past decade of following these spiritual teachers. And that's the point, don’tcha think? I've been practicing my spiritual lessons for more than a quarter of my life and last time I looked in the mirror, I don't bear even the remotest resemblance to Ghandi. Every day, or most days, for the past two years, I've been focused on being a happy, healthy, spiritually astute, agented, published writer with throngs of fans who insist -nay, demand - I have my own TV show. But you don't see my ass on Oprah's couch, do you? No. Am I a balanced, evolved, spiritually aligned pied piper? Hardly. And as I type these words I remain un-agented. Unpublished.

But back to that recent moment. It's summer of 2009. I've been living in Taos, New Mexico for three years, somehow managing to pay the rent for two households after quitting my role as an artist agent in favor of a writing and stage career. Money has been tight. And tighter. Finally, like a big-footed stepsister shoving her paw in Cindy's delicate, glass slipper, the financial situation grows so tight I can hardly breathe. My mind is consumed by fear one moment, hope the next. I think I might bust. I cling to the life-raft words of my spiritual teachers, catching each panic-ridden thought before it grows into something overwhelming, turning my attention and emotions to what I can enjoy and appreciate. I practice and practice and practice watching my thoughts, tending my emotions, careful to keep an attitude of gratitude.

One month passes. Then another. Our finances support us, just barely. Part of me is grateful, peaceful in the present moment knowing there is nothing to fear but fear itself. And the other part of me? Is resentful, afraid. Jealous of the friends and associates living their dream, manifesting their abundance. My fear runs into the streets, pleading to the heavens.

"Why? What? Why don't you like me? What am I doing wrong?" And not too long ago, dressed in ashes and sackcloth, my legs covered in red bumps and looking a lot like prickly, naked chicken skin, I got an answer. Or an answer got me. Brace yourself. It's a little strange and definitely surreal when you hear the Universe answer you back:

"Lick the lolly."

Me: "Ummm. Huh?"

Universe: "Lick. The. Lolly."

Me: "Ummmmm. Sure. Right. Whatever."

I slink away from the Universe silently mumbling if you didn't wanna answer me you coulda just said so. You don't have to taunt me with 70's TV Laugh-In jokes. And then I see it, a vision:  A little boy in a cartoon world walking up to a wise old owl perched on a tree branch. The boy holds a Tootsie Pop lollipop. He addresses the owl, in a seeker-to-sage kind of way, in a grasshopper-to-master-snatch-the-pebble-from-my-hand kind of way, in an Angi-beseeching-the-Universe-as-Wise-Old-Owl kind of way, "Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?" Mr. Owl grabs the lolly from the boy's hand and says, "Let's find out!" Then he proceeds to lick ‘til he can no longer stand it. One! Two! Three! Crunch! Apparently it takes Mr. Owl only three licks to get to the center.

But how about the rest of us?

We've got that delicious nugget of a dream-come-true in the center of our life lollipop. We visualize, affirm, meditate, and hold positive vibrations each day as we see our dream before us, unfolding as our reality. And it's not happening. And it's not happening. And we keep on keepin' on and still it ain't happening. And we wanna kick the wise old owl out of the tree and pluck his feathers out one by one til he confesses he's a fraud. Or until he squeals like a pig and gives up the real means of getting to the center.

But as I see this 70's Saturday morning cartoon commercial vision in my head, I suddenly get it. Our life is the lollipop, and our dreams are, indeed, the chewy sweet nugget residing in the center. The only way to get to them, to reveal them, is to lick the lolly. This makes a groovy kind of sense to me, so before I go plucking The Universal Owl, I consider the lollipop strategy, step by step.

Step One - Before you lick, you gotta buy

Just like you'd buy a lolly in the convenience store before you'd open it up and give it a good lickin', (unless you’re my mother, who rips open candy faster than you can say Willy Wonka, and has been known to walk up to a grocery counter with five lollipop wrappers, an empty package of pinwheel cookies, and a shameless grin on her face) you have to buy your current reality, and own the fact that you've created it. Oh, I know. Many things show up in our lives that we refuse to believe we've created. "I did not create Snidely Whiplash as an ex-husband. I did not create a closet full of cheap shoes, seven pounds of cottage cheese on my thighs, a ten thousand dollar tax bill, a boss who's second cousin to Beelzebub or a daughter who thinks Daisy Duke shorts and black lipstick are God’s gift to women." But, ohhhh, yes you did.

I'm not going to get into the scientific findings that support the self-made reality tenement. Nor am I going to address the doctrines that encourage or deny the power of mankind to shape its destiny. Let us, instead, work with the premise of energy. We're all energy, and as such, we are constantly attracting and repelling, like magnets. We're also creators, making and unmaking the events and stories of our lives. As energetic creators, we have a choice in how we shape and mold our life. Florida Scott-Maxwell once said, "You need to claim the events in your life to make yourself yours. When you truly possess all you have been and done... you are fierce with reality." And, I might add, not only do you become fierce with reality when you claim your power as a creator, but your reality becomes fierce! As in Project-Runway-two-snaps-up-and-a-twist fierce.

You can't beat that with a stick. Well, you could. But who'd want to? I can think of many other things I'd rather beat with a stick. But not a dead horse. Who ever came up with that line anyway "It's like beating a dead horse." Why would anyone want to beat a horse, dead or alive? Horses are nice. And pretty. I'm sure there's a million and one other things that a horse would rather do than be beaten. Like eat dandelions. Frolic in a pasture. Run wild through amber waves of grain and stuff like that. You keep your beatin' stick to yourself, thank you. In fact, why don't you trade your beatin' stick in for a lolly stick? Much more pleasurable. And on that note, lick the lolly, part deux...

Step Two: Unwrap it, 'cuz the paper just tastes gnarly

We all grew up unwrapping things:  frozen dinners, birthday presents, lollipops. Our reality is no different. It, too, wears a disguise. Our lives might seem, in one moment, painful, bizarre, cursed, overwhelming, and the next moment our lives appear blessed, delightful, euphoric. But no matter how it seems, the truth is, it's all a disguise, and it's all temporary. Underneath the wrappings and trappings of life, there is soul. And that soul is neither circumstantial nor temporary. It is eternal. We must, if we wish to attract our innermost wishes into our reality, understand the essence of our soul and distinguish its presence underneath all temporal conditions.

It's hard to remember you are soul when you're stuck in traffic at 5:45 and dinner guests arrive at 6.30. Or your flight's delayed and seven hours later you board the aircraft only to end up sitting next to foul-smelling, shoe-removing, knuckle-cracking Dale the Shower Curtain Ring Salesman from Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Or worse yet, you walk into your doctor's office and she mentions the C word. You know the word I'm talking about: cunnilingus. And you haven't had it with your husband since Reagan was in the white house, and episodes of LOST make you feel found, Sawyer and Sayid battling The Others with their big sticks and bigger muscles, and you just know at any moment they're gonna hack their way outta The Island's jungle and into your own, blazing a trail of hot sweaty goodness from the TV screen allllll the way to your bedroom sheets. I'm not even gonna mention what it means to like that lolly. Instead, let's suffice to say that underneath the pleasure and madness, there is a soul that needs validation, and authentic expression. If you want your life-lolly to serve you, to reward you with its sweet center of dreams-come-true, you have to be willing to see beyond the disguises, take off the wrappings of the temporal and stand naked with the bare truth of soul.

Step Three - Define the center point

Most of us who've ever sucked on a Tootsie Pop Lollipop, (or a Blow -Pop, come to think of it, though I'm not touching that one with a ten-foot, dead-horse beating stick) are aware that chewy Tootsie Roll goodness awaits us in the center. After we buy it and unwrap it, we're all atwitter at the thought of the center.

So what is your center point? What dream-come-true awaits you at the center of your life-lolly? We all contemplate success, harbor hopes, nurture dreams. But until we define our center, that vision of our someday-reality as a dream-come-true, we run the risk of being caught in reverie; a sort of someday-my-prince-will-come-Snow White well-wishing. Is it just me? Or did anyone else want to grab hold of Snow's shoulders and give her a good shake? Followed by a kiss and a hug and a wagging finger:  "Oh for God's sake, girl, grow a pair! Stop waiting wistfully by this wishing well and go find him you own damn self. And while you're at it, quit baking gooseberry pies for little men who don't know how to clean up after themselves. Learn how to ride a horse and wield a sword, and for heaven's sake stay away from controlling, jealous women who want to dip you in poison and steal your power. "

But I digress. We cannot purposely attract what we have not defined. Until we define our center point - that which reflects the highest vision of the grandest version of ourselves - we create our reality unconsciously. Pardon me for quoting the Bible when there are so many other fabulous wisdom-books out there, but Proverbs says it like this, "A people without a vision soon perish." It is the dream, the picture of us having what we most desire, which acts as a navigational magnet, pulling our reality toward it.

Step Four - Find the sweet spot

Life is full of surprises, and sometimes those surprises taste an awful lot like suffering or despair. Or twelve-day-old sushi in a castor oil ashtray. And while some spiritual teachers would suggest we go sit under the Bodhi tree and empty ourselves of all desires in order to avoid the yin-yang duality of joy and disappointment, I'd rather suck on something sweet. Maybe I'll sit under the Bodhi tree while I'm doing it, but you ain't gonna catch this girl livin' free from all desires. Why would The Universal Owl create frosted cupcakes and asiago cheese bread and lollipops if not for our delight?

So what to do when you're surprised with pain or trauma? Disappointment? Consider the sweet spots in your life. For what are you grateful? What thoughts taste good? What ideas or visions - or, to go back to the concept that we're all energy, what vibrations - create in you a sense of delight? This is the spot on your life-lolly you want to focus upon. Phillipians says it like this: "Whatever is true, noble, lovely, admirable…think on these things." I say it like this "Verily, verily I say unto thee: Find thou the sweet spot, then sucketh." (I'm a recovering Baptist. So sue me.)

 Our emotions are powerful things, far more powerful than we even know. Abraham-Hicks calls our emotions a guidance system, claiming that the more joy we have, the closer we are to our authentic selves, the part of us already living our dream. The more depressed we are, the further we are from our true core and our dream-come-true-reality. I can only attest to this truth from experience. When I dwell on my pain or disappointment, life tastes bitter. I may not even want to get out of bed some mornings, for fear that my lolly will taste like a battery acid tofu burger. But if I wake, even full of dread or despair, and can find a sweet spot? Even a small one? An itty bitty candy-joy that fills my mouth and heart with delight? Well, that in and of itself can generate the steam I need to get out of bed. Doesn't mean the pains and aches go away. It simply means I am not focusing upon them, and by doing so, they shift. The sour may be there, but the sweet spot calls me on. And as we all know, what we think on grows. Soon the sweet spot covers the entire lolly, and you're back to coveting and enjoying the sweetness of your life. 

Step Five - Lick the lolly

All the other steps lead to this one, and truly, this isn’t hopscotch, so if you wanted to, you could skip right to this one every time, because nothing works better or faster than loving What Is. Licking our lollipop-lives is our way of loving our selves and our creations. No matter how or when we created our now, whether we remember the thoughts and energies that drew this present to us or not, the only way out is through, and the only way through is love.

I know what you're thinking. "This sucks." And it does. I mean, we do. If we’re wise, we lick and suck and adore our present, the way a four year old adores his snow cone, the way this forty year old loves her Ben and Jerry's. When we embrace our lives and our selves, just as we are, we create a tremendous amount of shape-shifting energy. Just like the candy coating on a Tootsie Pop dissolves under the friction of our tongue, so, too, our life circumstances under the influence of love.

This means we are required to hold our dreams and goals in one hand, our now with the other, not prizing one over the other, but loving both. This mixture of allowing the present (the external events and circumstances of our lives) while cherishing the future (the internal nugget of our hope) acts as a catalyst on our lollipop, shaping and shifting it, until it reveals its tasty center.

You cannot bite it or break it or force it open. Life's lollipop must dissolve under love's embrace, until there is nothing left but your dream, tangible and real, ready to be consumed.

I don’t always lick the lolly. Sometimes I want to hurl it as far away from me as possible. Sometimes I want to run over it with my SUV, then smother it with paint thinner, just for good measure. But then I remember, and I retrieve it. Like today. Today I am licking the lolly, the unagented, unpublished lolly of my life. My bank account is thin but my heart is fat with love as I watch the sun set over the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the marigolds waving an adieu in the wind, the jeweled hummingbirds waltzing in midair, performing some kind of twilight pas de deux, The taste is sweet, so I savor. And is it just me? Or do I detect the lolly’s slick surface giving way to some chewy goodness? Maybe it’s just me. But maybe it’s my center, at last, come to fetch me.

Those of you who follow this blog know that Tink has developed strange lumps on her chest and she goes in today for surgery in hopes that we'll discover and be able to treat her condition. I'm trying not to panic. In doing so I thought I'd bring out this article, written two years ago. It marked a very important anniversary for the two of us, and is the story of how she saved my life.

~angi, august  28, 2009

This week ten years ago marks the date my life was crippled. But this week also sees the nine year anniversary of Tinkerbell's flight into my life. On July 17th, 1998 she left Neverland for Austin, Texas where she began her Flight Lessons and Wing Repair workshop.

Nine years later she is still my guide and continues to help navigate the winds of my life. She is sleeping at my feet while I type this. When I hit the 'enter' button to submit this post, I am going into the kitchen where I'll prepare a grilled cheese sandwich for us to share. That's her favorite and today is all about her.

This is her story. This is my story. We share it with you with a sprinkling of pixie dust. Have a nice flight...

*     *     *     *     *     *    *     *     *     *     *
There is the thing, and then there is the memory of the thing. When the doorbell rang on Tuesday, July 14th, 1998, the one-year anniversary of my paralysis accident, announcing the arrival of a dozen yellow roses it was the memory of a smile I offered to the delivery boy.  But he didn’t know that. Just as he didn’t know that the color yellow was a fading thing and the roses, although directly in front of me, offered only the memory of scent.

When trauma occurs our human tendency is to employ the fight or flight response. Mine was flight, quite literally, on a gilded ship into the land of fairytale. While my body, soul and mind remained trapped in a torturous experience, some small part of me sailed to a port of safety. I think it was the feeling part of me because since the trauma of paralysis, abuse and recovery, my body began to regain sensation but my feelings remained numb. It was as if the land of the living were the mainland, while I in my numbness stood on an island. From my isolated vantage point, I could see the mainland, but I had no way across.

I considered the flowers. Purple vase, green stems, yellow petals. Ah, I remember yellow. It’s a primary color, kin to brother red and sister blue. It lends its hue to joyful objects like lemon cake, Easter eggs and summer dresses. But the damage from surgery had left a few side affects. Just as I could not feel the tips of my fingers burning when they touch an oven door, I could no longer feel yellow. My nose could differentiate between a natural rose and a store bought rose. But the scent, like the emotion, just didn’t reach beyond the surface. "To Tinkerbell. It’s time to fly,” the card read. Hmmmm. I remember flying. I dipped my nose into the folds of petaled sunshine. But the rays weren’t enough to penetrate my foggy interior. I sighed, grabbed the packages for the post office and closed the door on thoughts of Neverland and memories of yellow.

Bright bright bright outside, as only a day in Austin, Texas can be. As I scanned the parking lot for Robin, I could not resist the urge to look up. So much sky up there. They say everything’s bigger in Texas. Certainly holds true for political egos and summer sunsets over the Austin canyons. Cotton ball clouds, expansive breeze, a good day for flying. But I hadn’t recuperated from paralysis enough to drive myself tot he post office, so flying was certainly still out of the question.

“Hey girl, get your happy ass in here before you melt,"Robin shouted as she pulled her 1988 VW van into view. My four-year-old niece Hannah was in the backseat with sister Danielle, who had just started kindergarten. They were arguing about the Spice Girls. Should there be a sixth girl in the group and what spice should she be? When I ducked out of the asphalt-heat and into the soothing temperature of the van, the current choices were Flower Spice, Weenie Spice and Stupid Spice.

The day was as a day like any other. That’s when these things happen.

As we passed the Highland Mall, Robin says under her breath, "does that sign say puppies?’ and the next thing I know we are cutting across four lanes of oncoming traffic to pull up next to a 1981 red Chevrolet Nova. A crude wooden board has been spray painted with the words Chiwa-wa puppies 4 Sale. Yo Quiero Taco Bell. It sits at an awkward angle against the front bumper of the Nova. I roll my eyes. She’s gotta be joking. She is not actually going to look at these puppies. Then she turns off the engine and I know she’s serious. "Robin, what are you doing? I don’t want to see these dogs. Get me outta here." She smiles at me, mischief in her eyes. I look out the window and see the man put out his cigarette in the ashtray of the car. "I mean it Robin. He’s probably suffocating those little dogs. Any man that smokes in this weather with the windows rolled up and puppies inside probably also has his mother locked in a basement somewhere and bites the heads off of live chickens. Let’s go." But there she sits, grinning.

The man approaches the van on my side. I do not look at him nor offer any encouragement, bur Robin rolls down the passenger window from the controls on the driver’s side to allow a strange hand to deposit a foreign package in my lap—a little brown dollop of fur stares up at me. Then the man—who I am more and more convinced, is some kind of Charles Manson psychopathic Santa Claus--proceeds all the way around the van until all laps and hands are filled with puppies. The little package of breath and paws fits in my palm. Her heavy sigh is the final crack. I turn to Robin and glare. If venom could be projected through the eye sockets she’d have been howling in pain and begging for mercy. Lacking such a device, I reached for my box of superlatives.

"You horrid, sadistic wench. I cannot believe you’re doing this to me. I cannot have a dog. I can’t do it. You know I can’t do it. Just get me outta here. I’ll never forgive you. Let’s GO! I mean it! I hate this...and...you!"

Of course I didn’t hate her, but I hated the way the little brown fur began to wiggle. I hated the way it’s liquid brown eyes sought out mine and asked me for help. I had none to give. And that helplessness confused, overwhelmed and consumed me.

You see, since surgery, more than my body experienced paralysis. And while I regained physical movement over the slow progression of seasons, the emotional and spiritual recovery was taking much longer. I had been a vibrant woman living in a colorful world.  She was a memory. I could remember her and her passion for life the way I remembered the smell of roses or the color yellow. But now my life was divided into the Befores and Afters of trauma.  Before: passion. After: apathy.  Before: color. After: grey.

My two cats Gracie and China had suffered through my transformation and daily I felt their disappointment. They seemed to recall better than I who I had been and how much love we had shared. They keenly felt my withdrawal and knew how much of a chore loving had become. I had my literal and figurative hands full with the daily chore of feeding and cleaning after the three of us. Affection was a luxury I could no longer afford. Emotion—the kind of emotion that allows you to engage with another being—well, that seemed a lovely place to visit, somewhere on the mainland. But me with no boat, no bridge, no wings.

The guilt from two cats was more than enough. A dog—geezus! especially a puppy! -- would want all kinds of things from me I no longer had access to. There’s no way to set a puppy on the windowsill and know it can stay content for hours in the sunshine, settling for the ever-so-often stroke of the tail or rub behind the ears. Just feeling the little tuft of fuzz in my hand elicited in me a maternal growl of protest. I was angry and resentful at my lack of connection to the person I was, the life I lead, the dog I had always wanted.

After what seemed eons, Norman Bates packed up his pups and returned to his car to light another cigarette. We drove to the post office. I felt better. And then I didn’t. I would, if I could just move far enough away from the feeling in my hands, from the tugging at my heart. I can’t do it. I know I can’t do it. Why can’t I do it? It’s ridiculous. There’s no way. Just forget it ever happened.

All the way to the post office, the longest short drive I’ve ever taken, Hannah and Danielle pleaded with us to turn the van around. We were making a terrible mistake. We needed to rescue the puppies. Certainly we could get the brown one, the girl dog, and name her Puppy Spice!

Stepping out of the car I resolved to put it all behind me. I focused on getting inside, loading up the desk with my packages, paying for the postage. The bill was 9.90 and I handed the clerk a ten-dollar bill. He gave me two nickels in change. I turned to my nieces and said, “Here you go! Go buy yourself a treat! Now, don’t spend it all in one place!” I joked. Hannah turned her earnest face to me, eyes lit like Christmas, and said, “I know what I’ll do with my nickel!”

“What?” I asked.

“I am going back to that red car and get a puppy!”

That was it.  I threw my internal hands to the sky. I surrender.

One hour later I was riding home in Robin’s van with the brown thing in my shirt pocket. By the time we reached my apartment complex she was snuggled between my neck and the headrest, sound asleep.

I extracted her little puppy self from my neck and gathered her into my palms, while negotiating my way out of the van. I closed the door, waiting for the sound of the engine to turn off. But instead it continued to idle. I dipped my face into the car window:  “You’re not leaving?! What am I gonna do?’ You can’t just leave me alone.”

“You’re not alone. And you’ll figure it out. Together.”

As the van pulled away, I stood in the parking lot too stunned to move. The little brown thing must have felt the same way, having been traded into foreign laps and hands all day, removed from her home, her siblings and all that was familiar. We just stood there--me on the pavement, she in my hands--both of us too timid to move.

The cars on the asphalt, the stairs and lamps and apartments all looked exactly as I had left them this morning. Nothing had changed. (Except everything.) The day was just like any other. Of course, that’s when these things happen.

I tucked the little bag of fur under my arm and fished for the keys in my pocket. We turned toward the door and stepped inside a new life. Together.

The first day and a half there wasn’t much room in that apartment for anything other than panic. Neither of us could believe what I’d done, but the implications stared up at me through twin brown pools. If I wasn’t careful, I’d drown in them. In times of stress, I find myself moving in slow motion. The world shrinks to this step, that breath, breakfast lunch and dinner. Oh yes, and potty time, which was new for me. Dogs don’t come with litter boxes.

On the second day I took her to Pet Smart and we bought a doggie bed, puppy food, a purple collar no longer than my index finger and chew toys for her little needle teeth. On the third day we played fetch, hide and seek and the new game: harass the kitties. On the fourth day I named her Tinkerbell. She seemed to possess wings and mine were only a memory. Perhaps she would teach me again to fly.

On the fifth day she didn’t eat breakfast and wouldn’t drink water. When we walked outside for our morning potty break, she had diarrhea. When she wouldn’t play fetch or eat lunch I called the doctor. Knowing that sickness in puppies is highly contagious and often fatal, I drove her immediately to the vet's office. Within minutes he confirmed Tinkerbell had Parvo and explained that chances of survival were about fifty/fifty, but for small dogs like chihuahuas, the percentage of survival dropped to around forty/sixty. To save her would require an aggressive medical treatment that would average between one hundred to two hundred dollars a day and could go on for weeks, to no avail. She could die at any time, regardless of how long they treated her. She could show signs of improvement and then suddenly reverse. The realities of Parvo and the reactions to treatment were as varied as puppies themselves. The vet cautioned me that Tinkerbell's test had come back very quickly, which indicated the virus was advancing quickly through her system.

I had quit my job just weeks before and was living close to the end of my savings. Sitting in that treatment room with the sounds of barks and meows all around me, a tiny shaking brown lump in my hands, I felt the headsman had come for me. Each word the vet uttered about Parvo glinted with the sharp edge of a silver ax. This was nothing short of a death sentence. For Tinkerbell. For me.

I thrust her into the hands of the vet and said, "Do what you’ve got to do. Start treatment" and ran from his office. I climbed into my Acura and screamed at God. "You can forget it!" I wailed. "You take this dog from me and this contract is over! I will not stay in this world if this is how it goes!" I called my mother on the cell phone. Through snot and tears and hiccups I screamed into the phone: "Tinkerbell has Parvo. She’s at the vet's and they're keeping her! The doctor said he had not seen a test come back so quickly with a positive result, so he thinks it’s advanced! I am not staying on this fucking planet any longer if she dies! Do you understand? This is enough! ENOUGH! What kind of a sick game is this? Rape, paralysis, abuse, and then bring some small shape of hope to my life just to yank it away? Just to play with me? Fuck that. If she doesn't make it, I am out of here! I am OUT OF HERE!!!"

What could Mernie say? She knew I was dangling from the thread of a very thin rope. She used what she could. "Angi, listen to me. I want you to go into your apartment. Do not think about this for one more minute. Just get out of your car and into your apartment. Light a candle and fill the tub with hot water. Get in and let go.  Tinkerbell has not gone anywhere yet, so just give yourself a few minutes without the thought of what might happen. Don’t think. Just go get in the water."

I did. When I got out, I lit four candles, one in each of the four directions. I took my favorite Tinkerbell figurines from the Disney Store and placed one in front of each candle. I found my pixie dust, stashed away in the sock drawer. It came with a Tinkerbell doll someone had given me for Christmas. I sprinkled pixie dust into each of the four candles and then I sat in the middle of my living room. I didn’t speak to God again. I wouldn’t even look in His general direction. We were on such shaky ground. We kept a respectful distance, knowing that a muttered wrong word or an askew glance could have disastrous results.

I sat. And I sat.  Then I sat some more.

At some point before sunset I dressed myself and went back to the vet's office.  When I walked into the back room where they kept the critical care dogs, I heard Tinkberbell at the same moment I saw her. She’d spotted me and began to howl-- a little Chihuahua two-and-a-half-pound howl, but a howl from the gut. A howl for me. For us. I wasn’t sure if it was a howl of hello or goodbye, but of one thing I was sure. Only five days together and I wasn’t the only one to feel my world changed. The howl, whether hello or goodbye, spoke of recognition. Familiarity. Association. We were a pack.

They let me take Tinkerbell to the yard behind the building. All sick dogs are allowed out back, but the Parvo pups have to be contained within one tiny area so they do not infect other animals. I sat down with her on the grass while she sniffed around, peed, then finally settled into the cuff of my jeans and fell asleep. I said nothing.  I was careful to think nothing. Each moment was precarious and I simply could not afford fear. At this point, it was a fight for both our lives. Too much hung in the balance to give way to words, to tears, to thought.

It was just Tinkerbell and me as the sun sank low in the Texas sky. So much sky. A big blazing Texas sunset and then time to go home.

Tinkerbell was returned to her cage, but as soon as I turned away from her container, she started howling. Bark. Bark. Hooowwwwl! Bark. Bark. Hoowwwwl! I walked faster, the sound threatening to break my heart. I heard one of the attendants say as I passed through the doors into the waiting room, "Hard to believe such a big sound can come from such a tiny being."

I wondered if it was big enough to save her. To save us both.

The next day presented an emotional land mine, threatening to detonate a bomb of grief with every step. I visited Tinkerbell three times that day and again at midnight in the after-hours facility. There was no improvement, but there were no signs of worsening. A dispensation of grace, that. The fourth day I visited Tinkerbell twice and then again at the after-hours facility at midnight. They would not allow her out of her cage that night so I slunk down on the cold linoleum floor and curled around her cage, stroking her with one finger through the metal bars. It was there, curled into the fetal position with Tinkerbell as my center, that I felt the first flutter of wings in my heart.

“Tink, I have been thinking. Maybe. Maybe I can do this.  Maybe we can do this. I really don’t know how to come back. I don’t remember how to love or how to feel, really. I can't promise you anything. I am damaged goods, Tink. I don’t know what kind of home or what kind of love I can give you. You are taking your risks if you stay with me. But if—if—you’ll stick around I’ll…I’ll..." I gulped. I felt a huge abyss stretched in front of me.  A gulf as dark and wide as the ocean between mainland and island. I had been looking at the mainland a long time, wondering if a ship might someday come. But on this night there was no ship, only the sound of wings. "What I am trying to say is I don't know why you chose me. But thank you. I want to choose you back, Tink. I want you to stay... with me...and...if you’ll come back to living, I will too.”

I left that night in silence. For once, Tinkerbell did not howl. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, but I knew I had made the first step of a significant journey and the energy it took left me exhausted. I drove the five miles home and slipped into a dreamless sleep almost immediately. I awoke to the sound of wings.

When I arrived at the vet's office the next morning for my first visit of the day, I stepped out of the Acura and again heard the sound of wings. I actually ducked this time, thinking someone's pet cockatoo or parrot might have escaped the facility. I scanned the parking lot. Nothing. I walked in the door and greeted the receptionist by asking if anyone had lost a bird. "Not that I know," she said, "but I need you to come with me." She took me to a private room, which was unusual, and told me the doctor would need to see me. My heart dropped. What had happened? Was Tinkerbell taking a turn for the worse? Had she died in the night? Tears immediately filled my eyes as I imagined the tiny place she’d made in my heart never filling, never healing, leaving one more rip in the fabric of my soul. The doctor came in before I could ponder on what island that devastation would leave me.

“Well, Ms. Sullins, I don't know how to explain this. But something's changed with Tinkerbell." I looked at him and his face seemed confused, conflicted. I held my breath. "Tinkerbell is eating normally and shows no signs of diarrhea. We've taken her off the IV, as she's drinking on her own. I really cannot tell you how this occurred, but to be certain I ordered another Parvo test this morning and it is negative. She literally shows no signs of the disease."

The sound of wings. It was closer now. I could hear the flutter so loud it was hard to make out what he was saying.

”What?” I asked, feeling disoriented as the wind swept across my face and through my hair, though the air in the room was still.

"I cannot be too optimistic, here, Ms. Sullins and I encourage you not to be. These things can happen only to reverse immediately. I want Tinkerbell under close observation for the next seventy-two hours. She needs her food and water intake as well as her bowel movements monitored for any sign of change. I want to see her again tomorrow afternoon, but if you feel up to taking charge, she can be discharged from our care." He paused, looking at my windswept face with concern.

"Ms. Sullins, would you like to take her home?"

Home. Yes. I want to go home.

Tinkerbell's wings were wide enough to carry us both.