Challenges and Metaphors of the Black Dog

When you like communicating and sharing, having a black dog may be tricky. You want to show off the young animal, share the emotion. But the black dog is difficult to photograph. If the light is not right, your picture shows a dark shadow with imprecise outline.

In what direction is the tail or the head of the animal in this picture??

Of course, you can play with the settings, lightening things up, but then you get a grey puppy in the midst of a washed out surrounding.

Plus, the model is fast and does not get that she should stay still for a short moment for posterity (and the popularity of the parents on facebook).

Here, two seconds ago, there was a puppy exquisitely laying on her bed

So since she is difficult to show in a photo, I imagine how else I could represent her.

Of course, if she was a dragon from the “How to train your Dragon” series , she would be a Fury. Isn't the resemblance uncanny? 

If she was an underwater creature, she would be a sea urchin. I grew up swimming in the Mediterranean Sea and know all too well the painful encounter with sea urchins, when you step on them while swimming, just the day you did not wear your plastic sandals. 
This is quite the experience with Denali. She rushes over you, all tenderness and love, and after a moment of cuddling, she nips at you with her needle-like teeth!

So it is not that easy to share images of our dragon-urchin. But I have to admit: living with her and seeing her grow is a joy. You will have to take my word for it. 

Morning Doe, Bad Blood and Indian tacos

What happened this week ? Looking back.

Morning Doe

Last Sunday, as I was going to UPPC for worship, I found myself right in front of a doe, or so it seemed. I had just exited the highway. She was walking on the curb, coming from nearby woods I suppose. She crossed the road behind me. 

Sometimes, I find myself crossing path with a coyote or a deer, a reminder that so many neighborhoods have been built recently on woods where they would roam. 

Those encounters are always a surprise to me, and now that I know a little bit about the Native American perspective, I see and enjoy them as a smile from the world unknown.

Bad Blood is not French – or is it?

That Sunday, after the first worship, there was a blood drive in the gym. I always volunteer for those. I like the connection it creates between two persons who will never meet, one receiving the blood she needs from the other. And I am Group O, universal giver, which is not as frequent here as it is in France.

So I went and talked to the nurse who was welcoming people. Alas, the process stopped here for me. I am French. I lived in France in the 80 and 90’s; that was when the mad cow disease broke out. There is no way to detect if I was contaminated and could develop the Creutzfeldt-Jacob disease one day. So the nurse declined my offer. She was sorry and was wondering how to soften the rejection. She had a hesitant smile.

“Do you want a cookie?”

Indian Tacos Opportunity

Every quarter, the Church of the Indian Fellowship organizes a fry bread sale. Fry bread is a comforting Native specialty. The piece of fry bread can be used as a tortilla, a foundation to layer refried beans, ground meat, shredded lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. It is then called Indian Tacos.

On Friday, we had a big crowd. I was delighted and grateful to see friends from UPPC join the connoisseurs!

The next day, the sale continued. I made a buffalo stew that can be eaten with a piece of fry bread. It slow cooked over night in a sauce of tomato paste, soja sauce, Cherry vinegar and Worcestershire sauce, with homemade beef stock.

Good bye , Mark

Since December, UPPC has been focusing on the Gospel of Mark. The sermons have followed the flow of the Gospel, we had classes on Wednesday night to go deeper. Each week, I would write a few paragraphs on the chapter we would get to, followed by questions for study. It was hard work…  and that also became a joy to do it when I would feel I grasped a new angle or perspective and it would become this text included in the bulletin.

But the journey is about to conclude. The series will end with Easter Sunday. Relieved and a bit sad, I just wrote my last text on the 16^th chapter. Mark, in the earliest manuscripts, concludes with the women overwhelmed after meeting with the angel of the resurrection. An ending that is also a new start in the sun rising light.

We are entering the Holy Week… To be followed… 

DNA Scrutiny

In January, Irvin and I ordered a DNA research for each of us. That was our mutual Christmas gift! We filled the little jug with our saliva and sent the two small boxes. As I told him, “if they ever mix up our results, it will not be too hard to fix!” I cannot have Native American ancestry. Irvin has only one grandmother from European descent.

Irvin was out of town when an email informed me that my results were available. I have to say I did not wait for him to be back, I was too impatient. No romantic discovery by the two of us together!

I had a pretty clear idea of my origins but the dance of the genes has its own logic. 

This is what I found out. I am 64% “Jewish European”. That brought my childhood back to my mind where I have always felt this connection with the world of Judaism, while knowing very little about it. Later on, when I studied biblical Hebrew at seminary, I felt fascinated from the start.

But I am wondering how the percentage can be over 50% when only one of my parents is of Jewish descent?

Then I was told I am 19% from Great Britain. This is weird – although the blue circle over the country includes, in a lighter shade, the north of France and even Paris. Or would it be this great-grand-father from Valenciennes on my mother side?

Then 10% between Spain and Italy. This includes the south of France and it sounds logical since I have family from the Nice (Mediterranean coast) area.

A few percents from Scandinavia and Irland.

Then it was Irvin’s turn to discover his genes. He is 69% Native American, he knew that much.

20% from Great Britain? His non-Indian grand-mother was Norwegian. He found out he had English ancestors only by going up high in his genealogical tree. And he has only 3% genes from Scandinavia!

5% from Central Asia. Could it be a trace of great migrations by the Behring Detroit?

A few Irish percents.

Why do we want to know more about our heritage? Does it change who we are? Or the way we look at our family and ourselves?

We may find the beginning of an answer in the words written by poet and writer Linda Hogan, from the Chickasaw tribe.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands."

Deeds and Misdeeds of the New Girl on the Block

She jiggled and slept on my shoulder and in my neck, her muzzle on my collarbone, during the 4 hours it took us to drive home (Irvin was driving).

She welcomed all the new features of her new home with enthusiasm, sometimes even joyfully hopping on the spot.

Each step is almost higher than she is, but only a few days were needed for her to climb the stairs, leaping from step to step like a tiny mountain goat. She is afraid to go down though.

She adores Sitka, follows her everywhere, and tries to imitate her every move. Sitka does not reciprocate those feelings. 

When she gets growled at and pushed back by the alpha pup – because she interfered with the routine of her favorite moments, chewing on ice cubes, peaceful naps, or tender moments with us – she flattens herself on the ground in total loving submission. Then, without any psychological insight, she rushes back on Sitka, tries to get her to play, nibble on her ears… until the next bickering.

She loves to cuddle in our arms, warm and so soft. But soon she does bite everything she can reach, phalange, ear, lip… I am not sure she got the memo about her puppy teeth being currently as pointed as needles.

She reminds me of Tashina, but they are also different. Denali’s muzzle is longer. She is not shy as our very first pet was.

She cries at length, expressing deep emotions, when she loses sight of us. Sitka hates hearing this and goes in hiding in faraway places in the house.

She woke me up at 4:30 AM early this week because she wanted to play. This was the night where I was done writing an intricate introduction to the chapter 13 of the Gospel of Mark (the “apocalyptic” chapter) at 1:30 then had to wake up at 6:30 for a day full of meetings.

She follows us step by step so closely that we sometimes go into sudden unconventional dance movements when we want to avoid walking on her while not falling down.

She joyously gallops like a foal, especially when she is in the middle of a spectacular action, such as unrolling the toilet paper behind her after she got hold of its end in an unauthorized raid inside the bathroom.

In other words, we totally control the situation.

Riding with Volcanoes

The drive we did yesterday, from Washington State to Oregon, on Interstate 5 that leads all the way to California, can be a bit dull. But volcanoes keep things interesting.

We start with Mount Rainier, our neighbor. I feel like I know every detail of the side I get to see everyday wherever I go. I notice the change of seasons with the levels of snow that never goes completely away from its top.

When driving South, Mount St Helen appears fast. Its depressed crater is a reminder that in 1980, it erupted in a disastrous way.

Then, when in Oregon, Mt Hood and its pointy summit is next to be seen.

Those volcanoes are part of the chain of Cascades and disseminated from Canada to the north of California.

The most dangerous one, according to scientists, is probably Mount Rainier, as it is located so close to Seattle and Tacoma. This volcano is also covered with glaciers that would melt if it erupted. 

Even with a simple leak of hot water, the melting snow and ice would create a lahar, a flow of mud thick like cement that would be extremely dangerous.  

We live in the shadow of the volcano.

Authorities recommend that everyone has an emergency plan ready, just in case. Still, it is difficult to see this so familiar mountain otherwise than a breath-taking  view intended to remain unchanged.

Denali Era, day 1

Eventually, the day arrived. On Thursday night, Irvin flew back from Louisville, Kentucky where he almost stayed stuck because of an upcoming snow storm. The next morning, we were driving toward Oregon. Nearby Salem, we met Sally whose pretty little female dog had a litter by the end of December. And we got to finally meet with Denali. We had only seen pictures so far.

As I was holding her, I felt this chemical wave in my brain – ocytocin? Endorphin? A rush of happiness washed over me. I felt as light as a bubble floating in the sky. Sally showed us papers to sign. I was so distracted. If I had not dealt with an honest person, and without a husband, I might as well have signed an IOU for an abundant sum of money or an order to have a half-dozen of Dobermans delivered to our door in the coming days.

We have not had such a young puppy at home for almost 10 years. What surprised me most is… how small she is. She is joyful and lively, but she is so small and vulnerable… I felt that way with each of my previous dogs then forgot about it. I am looking forward for her to get bigger.

And in the same time, as I hold her and sense her warm breath while she falls asleep in my arms, I don’t want to rush – but fully experience each day.