This is a photo of Phoenix that was made into a canvas painting which now hangs in my kitchen along with her collar, tags, and her ashes which has her favorite baby (lambchop stuffie) in the blue velvet bag.
April 29, 2011-December 19, 2024
She was the best girl. She never met a stranger, behaved herself (mostly) when we went on adventures. I inherited her from my friend, Nancy McCord when it wasn’t possible for her to care for Phoenix anymore.
Phoe will always be the girl who gave me back my heart.
When I lost my dear Pumpkin a few years back, I was heartbroken. Phoenix and my therapist helped me to understand that I wasn’t replacing Punky, nothing could, but I was allowing the love to continue.
Phoe loved to rearrange rugs, chase her lamby, go on sniffaris, and generally loved the world. My heart was heavy, but she was getting increasingly confused, fell down the steps of my deck, and became incontinent. I knew it would come, but I didn’t want to say goodbye. I did take her for a great ride around before I brought her to the vets who loved her so much.
I wanted to be okay with it. I felt grief, but I also felt a loneliness for her clicking claws on my floor. I missed her greeting me when I came home from work. I missed her wanting to be on my lap to be loved on.
With a bit of guilt, I started searching for a new extention of love. I wanted to find a small baby to grow old with. I didn’t contact anybody. I went with my Beastie to say goodbye to her 16 year old soulmate, Simmy. We wallowed in our sorrow that Monday.
On Sunday next, I made my usual trek over to my Beastie’s house where she confessed that she was looking at puppies too. With great relief that I wasn’t the only one, we searched, talked, shared, poked about, finally deciding on a Knoxville no-kill shelter where there were fuzzballs.
Before I went to meet the pups, my Beastie went exploring to see what they had “in stock”. She told me I needed to meet Mocha. I reluctantly agreed.
This little dog was in a corner room that had a small poo and a small puddle with a blanket. I agreed to meet her, but I was kind of looking for a baby.
She put her feet on my leg, so I picked her up. She “frog hugged” me. (Front legs around my neck, back legs splayed across my belly).
I thought, “Uh oh.” But the pressure I felt to CHOOSE ME! LOVE ME! forced me not to knee-jerk my reaction. We took her for a walk outside. She behaved brilliantly on the leash. She pottied. I brought her back in and went to meet the wee ones.
This is Finley (Phinley). He is about 8 weeks old (give or take) and living in foster care with three of his siblings. He is cute, cuddly, and so little! I loved him and he kissed me repeatedly.
On my way home from meeting Mocha and Finley, in the still of my racing brain. I knew where my heart belonged. It had been stolen quickly and completely.
Mocha’s profile is regal. Her adoration is apparent on her face. She LOVES to give kisses. The sleeping picture was after a day at the dog park, a pup cup, a new winter jacket (trip to the pet store), and a play session with her friend Keiver and several larger dogs.
Today is Mocha Choka Latte’s gotcha day. Her birthday is December 12 (But I’m moving it to the 19th). She’s an Italian Greyhound/chihuahua mix. She’s a little over a year old. Her adoption was finalized today. I’m in love.
A little history about this love of a pup. She was owner surrender because she bit a child who was feeding her from their hand. The owners wanted her put down. Mocha also nipped one of the volunteers at the shelter when given a treat.
At intake, in November, Mocha weighed in at 10 pounds. Today, after her spay, she’s at 14.4 pounds. I’m going to guess her food insecurity caused her food aggression. I’m already in talks with a dog trainer to see what can be done to guide Mocha to live her best life.
I’m in it till death do us part, so here’s to the continuation of love that Piggy, Punky, and Phoenix all gave to me with all of their hearts.
The match burst unexpectedly into a flame The tender tinder caught An ignition of late-night discussions That pursued verbal intercourse Vulnerability exposed; naked An incredible view from the mountain Where true north was marked on our compass The heat and warmth of intention Splayed out in tranquility and mutual reliance Invited to an adventure of a lifetime We blazed new trails through trials But apathetic time broke the compass And people do what makes sense to them The safe place became a wasn’t And a not now, not ever. The allure got eaten by silence When all I wanted to hear was “Don’t go.”
I had a last minute cancellation this afternoon which allowed me to spend time with a woman I met in the course of my work. We had a grand conversation. She asked me if I ever had a song stuck in my head that I just couldn’t get rid of.
“Why yes, that’s called an earworm.” I replied.
She laughed joyously.
“What song do you have stuck in your head?” I prodded.
She started singing. I asked her permission to record her to which she agreed. This is her singing and my video representation of her version of the song: When I Get Too Old To Dream.
Survival mode stepped to the side Allowing an informal reprieve from chaos An acknowledgement of mutual security The stability that came to dinner Pulled up a chair and feasted gluttonously On a childhood fantasy for totemic inclusion Seized the steadfastness of a kinship Situated in a sprawled right relationship Ladling the gravy of laughter over Legendary stories of affinity A communion of flavorful moments Savored in a homemade assurance of loyalty With an abundance of whipped cream
Death offers the warm embrace of peace A loving homage to the newly deceased Life used to stay busy; feel overly productive The spiral of drowsing is overwhelmingly seductive No more errands or things to do No more arguments of personal truth With warmest lust on the coldest skin An allegiance unfurls with the shifting winds What was once taken for granted truly is sated The breath comes no more from the body related And yet as a witness to the dearly departed A journey, a pilgrimage, a trail never charted Speculation like specters gather for court Dressed in saint’s clothing, suspended transport the breathing world is holding hands with Death leaving lamentations from the loved ones bereft
Each day I make a fresh cup of Kawphy (familial spelling handed down from my Grandfather (Bapa) on my mother’s side). I have one of my friends over, or I call my Bestie, or I call my mother before the first sip is tasted.
When my partner has their cup at the ready, I recite this prayer:
To your ancestors To my ancestors From my spirit to your spirit to OUR spirit Thank you Grand Rapids Fire Department Bless this holy water.
Context: My Great-Grandfather and my Grandfather both worked for the GRFD. It is common family belief that the next part of the ritual originated at their place of service.
Then we both take a noisy first sip and in unison say:
Ahhh, Nectar of the Gods!
The morning ritual is complete. I did this every day with my mother, but she doesn’t always remember. My Bestie has taken up the ritual as a way for us to start our day together.
Gratitudes
At the end of the day Jen, the aforementioned Bestie, would sit with her son and they would do “Gratitudes.” It’s a truly sweet ritual. One evening she was lamenting that her son had already gone to bed and asked if I’d do them with her.
Absolutely! We take turns sharing thing we’re grateful for either in our lives or during the day we’ve just had. I asked if we could do three external (meaning things that happened or we did) and one internal (positive things about who we are). She agreed.
Today, for example, I am grateful for my gift of wordsmithing, of being able to meet people where they are, for my friends, and for my parents still being available.
Once we’ve both stated the things, we complete the ritual with:
We are grateful for these things and so many more.
I wanted to share them with you because they’re important parts of my day. Which daily rituals do you honor? What helps you live the life you’re building with gratitude?
Grounding one’s heart on the hearth of a campfire recommitting branched souls to dust smoldering with barely seen confessions blazing with a lust to remain relevant extinguished by time returned to the mother
The winds of change do not blow lightly They are destructive, devastating, overwhelming But they are necessary to create stronger; better My feet are rooted in the mountain My eyes are drinking in the sky My arms are outstretched to embrace the shift My thighs are heated for battle My belly hungry for the crusade My chest is bare, unafraid and unaffected As I breathe in the promise of new dawn I exhale revolution of heart and mind Calling my sisters and brothers As thunderous as a siren’s song
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Mare Martell 