I was once a child of the 60's. My friends say I still am.
I lived on a commune with about 10-20 people and 10-15 dogs, give or take, depending on the litter of puppies of any given season.
A rabidly right wing neighbor shot eight of my dogs, and later a posse of policemen swept the commune, thinking that we would be an easier target without eight dogs to complicate their mission.
No drugs were found.
My neighbor who killed my dogs years later embezzled eight million dollars from the Republican Party, and his family left him in disgust.
Meanwhile it took me 21 years to get another dog, my beloved Mukunda.
We just celebrated his 10th birthday.
Twenty-one years without a dog is too long. But the post-traumatic stress surrounding the loss of my beloved 8 dogs did not allow me to even consider getting another dog.
Only one dog managed to make me cry in that 21 year period.
I had a short tumultuous relationship with a man who had an old beagle named Wild Dog. One day, he dropped her off and asked me to take care of her, twelve years after the ending of the commune years. And I agreed that I would.
Because of her advanced age, she could not take long walks, so we took frequent short walks.
I remember time slowing down.
I remember her appreciative glances my way, and I felt once or twice the great wisdom she emanated from every cell of her tiny old body. I did not want to give her up, knowing the day would soon come when she would go back with her master.
I remember the flash of memory surfacing pertaining to my commune dogs Alphy and Das and all their noble offspring, and how they and Wild Dog were dog/Gods come to sweep us away into eternity.
But her master reclaimed her and I forgot about my feelings of love for this very dear soul, as if forgetting a very important dream.
It is in remembering the dream that our everyday life loses the mundane quality of reality.
As I saw on a bumper sticker recently: "Reality is for people who lack imagination."
In this beautiful stark winter season, with the memory of green suddenly bursting forth from mud and brown earth, we can practice bringing that tone into our hearts for expression.
Mukunda reminds me of green even though he had a red head, just like mine. Or is mine just like his?
We are both green souls.
The cardinal is red yet she sings, surrounded by the profound green of the forest reflected on the great Conestoga River that rolls past our house.
The river is also red after long periods of rain. And at night, moon light filters through mist, reflected on dark river, as the red fox yelps her urgent message.
And Mukunda barks to go out and find her.
