Dog Gone, Stolen Heart

I'd just come back from my morning beach walk, a three mile jaunt up the beach topped off with a series of stretches. I usually come inside and begin to write but this morning I made my second cup of coffee and went outside to read, facing the beach and the incoming tide. The old stone pier that usually launches boats was empty except for an old man and a dog. I glanced and glanced again; sensing something wrong with the picture. The Mexican man was disheveled and dressed in clothes that didn't fit him. The dog was a purebred springer spaniel, well fed, obviously cared for and expensive. The picture didn't fit. I continued to watch as I grew more nervous. The dog was constantly looking afar as if expecting someone to come into view. He was not at home with the man in charge.

Eventually the man grabbed the long chain attached to the dog and walked past, crossing in front of me. I continued to watch him jerk the dog as he faded out of sight. About 45 minutes later I heard someone yelling and went outside to see him pass by again. This time the chain was replaced with nylon fishing rope and he was pulling the recalcitrant dog along. He had a new red baseball cap on; the dark kerchief around his neck was gone. He stopped and yelled at the dog and beat him with a stick as my stomach turned.

No more benefit of the doubt. I ran inside, grabbed my camera and snapped some shots of the man and dog as they made their way down the beach, then I went to the Islandia Office. "Marta," I asked, "If I lost my dog where would I go for help? Who would I call?" She told me the police. I told her the story, showed her the pictures and she picked up the phone. The police said they would check it out.

I'm posting this blog with pictures in case someone is searching the web for their stolen dog, then I'm climbing into my truck and driving into New Kino. I'll stop at Club Deportivo...someone might have tacked up a  lost dog flier. I know how sick to death I would be if it were Teak. I had recently heard several stories of dogs being stolen in Kino. When I checked the internet I saw notices for lost and stolen dogs all over Mexico and the Baja.

I plan to be relentless.

Valentine from the Sea

I finished the end of MotorHome Zen today. A draft, mind you, but a vibrant culmination of energies. Enough to terrify and exhilarate me. For that's what writing does, and if one can not walk those serrated edges one isn't cut out for life with the written word. It happens when I sit in the morning, pen in hand, and wonder where the ink will lead. Or if. It happens when I send my work to readers and wonder if the text will land with a thud or alight simple upon their souls. It happens in the face of wait from agents and publishers, when I receive gushing glowing letters from fans, or when rejection swamps my door.

I've been especially anxious this week because I knew the end of the book was near. Another ending, as if losing a lover wasn't enough. I also said goodbye to dear friends who stopped by to visit from Vancouver Island and five more buddies cranked their ignitions and headed back to the States. It felt like piling on as I mourned the loss of two deep loves, one in real time, one through the written pages of my book.

This morning I walked the beach and pleaded with the waves to salve my heartache. No beach combing for me. Couldn't make out shells through tears. My walk was almost complete when I stopped to stare out to sea. That's when my eyes turned down and I spotted the largest jingle shell I have ever seen, as big as the palm of my hand. I bent down and pulled it from it's sandy grave to find it was shaped like a heart!

That's when I knew I would garner the courage to finish the book.

My heart would be whole again, said my valentine from the sea.

Pesto-Chango

Yesterday morning I walked the beach and came upon a gull, one bloodied wing, dangling at his his side. I was angry at myself for not having the ability to catch him, pick him up and twist his neck. To save him from a long, slow death. Then I realized the poignancy of the moment. It was Candlemas Eve.

February 2nd and the damned groundhog gets all of the attention. For those in the know, however, it's all about Brighid, the triple fire goddess of smithcraft, poetry and healing. It's about a celebration called Imbolc and later referred to as Candlemas; a festival of light to honor longer days and the hope of spring. Traditionally, lanterns were lit in front of houses and rituals used many candles. It is a cross-quarter holiday, mid-way between winter solstice and spring equinox. It beckons one to sense the subtleties; feel the stirring within.

I know in my head that the sun has turned around at winter's solstice but there's no way it feels like it. Cold, harsh January is still to come, despite slightly longer days. Welcome, February! I actually feel the sun's heat upon my flesh. Bird plumage turns bright with the urge to mate. With spring on the horizon and thaw a state of mind, I think about what I want to cut loose. Easier sometimes to take an ice pick to something rather than wait for it to melt and drip all around. More compassionate to wring the neck and give death than opt for slow torture. Especially so this year because it's also New Moon, a time of new beginnings.

So it is I light candles to beckon the sun. I will burn my dried holiday wreath in the firepit (when I have one, I burn my Christmas/Solstice tree). This was traditionally a time when sheep began to lactate in the old country. Thus, milk and cheese were part of the holy-day feast. I have no RV-sheep; but I will continue my tradition and take pesto from the freezer...basil and pinyon nut sauce I made this summer in Kaslo, BC with Carole and Chris.

I will chew slowly; savor sun and earth in every bite of pungent basil. 
I will twist the neck of hopeless dreams.