This post is about two separate but related events in our family’s life. I’m going to tell them backward, out of order.
The second event that happened: We got a puppy. On Friday evening. This is Rose.
The first event that happened: We said goodbye to Suzi. Just a week ago, last Sunday, our family gathered to say a difficult goodbye to a dog we knew was sick and only getting sicker, but such a tenacious present soul. The house felt so empty when she was gone. We’d been wanting a puppy for a long time, but we knew that Suzi wouldn’t have been able to tolerate sharing our attention, and we didn’t want the end of her life to be plagued by anxiety, jealousy, stress.
Still, I think we all felt a little guilty about so quickly wanting to get a puppy. But here’s how I’m thinking about it: we aren’t replacing Suzi, we’re recognizing how much she (and her departed sister DJ) meant to us, and we’re filling the house with the presence of another little creature to hold, to love, to care for. Once you’ve become accustomed to sharing your space with a dog, your space without a dog feels empty (even with six people living in said space).
If I ever had to live alone, I would get a puppy. It seems like that would solve everything; or at least one very big thing — loneliness.
I would get a puppy, and I would zip it into my coat, like I did yesterday afternoon when Rose got shivery and cold on our outing. I would get a puppy, and I would watch it tumble over itself in the wet grass, picking up leaves, hopping like a bunny, sitting down suddenly and just as suddenly darting sideways. I would get a puppy, and I would hold it close and feel its body go calm and relaxed. Time would slow down.
Puppy time/baby time/small child time isn’t like adult time. I’ve been reflecting on the capacity for play that exists and expresses itself almost constantly in the newest arrivals on our planet. Puppies, babies, young children — their whole existence revolves around play. Play is how we learn, yes, and explore, and discover: it’s necessary for survival, no doubt. But play also contains a dimension of joy. (Is joy necessary for survival?) Joy is readily accessible to the pups of the world. Joy seems to emanate from existence itself.
I wonder at it.
Do we have to work for joy when we’re older? When experience has returned to us too many signs and signals of joylessness, grief, broken trust, the weight of responsibility? When we’ve become analytical, accustomed to living our lives from outside ourselves as well as inside ourselves?
Is joy even something you can work for? Or is its essence spontaneous, intuitive, magical?
My guess is that we can draw joy nearer, draw its possibility nearer, through conscious effort; but we can’t command it, no more than we can command grace, or trust, or love. To witness its vivid, effortless expression is such a gift.
I miss Suzi. I mourn that she was never able to relax fully, except when asleep, that although her trust in humans grew during the 6+ years she spent with us, her experiences before we knew her had done intractable damage. I’m glad to have a puppy upon whom only love will be poured; even while I mourn for all the Suzis of the world who have had their joy blotted and extinguished by cruelty and abuse. It was a hard task looking after two rescued dogs; I wasn’t up to the task again, so soon. So we start again with a puppy instead.
Give/receive. Maybe my spirit needs to receive joy, witness joy, in order to be able to give joy/give with joy.
Thanksgiving weekend in Canada.
I’m in the midst of a number of fraught and challenging decisions, with an ever-evolving to-do list related to teaching, career, writing life, family, responsibilities, volunteer work, and deadlines, and the phrase “there’s a lot on my mind” resonates strongly.
I seem to imagine, at some amorphous foggy point in the very near future — say, tomorrow — having the time and space to sit quietly and just think. To relax. To read for pleasure. And of course, to write in that exploratory, gathering, joyful fashion that is required of any early-stage major undertaking.
In my imagination, this foggy and amorphous future point, this tomorrow, is an actual space, a spacious space, wide open and clear, unclouded, with huge horizons and no clutter.
This is magical thinking, of course. As we all know, tomorrow never comes. That space does not exist, nor could it possibly, under the circumstances. This is of my own choosing. I wonder: have I filled my life with much too much on purpose, because I’m afraid of what an uncluttered life might feel like — would it feel empty, I wonder? Do I find meaning in the busyness? But what about clarity? Can there be clarity in a cluttered life? Because that’s really what I’m imagining, when I conjure this wide open space: it’s a place where all can be seen, clearly, where nothing is obscured or lost amidst the clutter.
The mind itself can see clearly. I could lift my eyes from the immediate needs that present themselves before me, and notice everything that surrounds me.
And be thankful.
I rode my bike to campus this morning with tears streaming down my cheeks. Tears of pain and rage. How can I explain? I was heading to a meeting with a colleague. We are working together on a project that will bring women whose identities have been fragmented by disruption, war, movement across borders, together in the same room to tell their stories. I see I’ve used the word together twice in that last sentence. I know it’s poor construction, but my subconscious knows what it’s talking about. As I biked in this state of flaming fury across the park, uncontrollable tears streaming down my face, what I wanted, what I felt would heal me or give me hope, would be to come together with other women and do something meaningful. When I arrived on campus and confessed my state of emotional disarray, my colleague told me that she believes what was staged in US Congress yesterday was deliberate and calculated — to cause pain. They put a woman’s history of pain on display so they could show us — this doesn’t matter, we have the power. We’re going to install this angry, self-pitying, credibly accused sexual assaulter to a position of almost unimaginable power over you and your bodies, and your stories do not matter.
I almost can’t type these words for the rage that is coursing through my body, causing my hands to shake.
Has any woman come to adulthood without having been, at some point (or many points!) in her life, treated as an object, a body, to be mocked or admired or possessed or controlled? Has any woman come to adulthood without having been patronized, sexualized, diminished, or ignored? Has any woman not struggled to find the perfect script, the words she must speak and the role she must inhabit if she is to be taken seriously, if her story is to be believed—only to realize that in fact, for her, there is no perfect script. No perfect script exists, just a series of scripts and roles designed to be turned against her.
What does this do to us, collectively?
It’s gaslighting at every turn. We want to say, but it’s better now—it’s better now! And isn’t it? Girls can be anything they want to be! Dads can look after their kids without receiving medals of honour for their efforts! Canada’s foreign minister is a formidable woman!
And yet. And yet. Is it better now? If a man credibly accused of multiple sexual assaults can be president? If all you need to get onto the Supreme Court is an in with the old-boys in Congress?
Who are we kidding?
I heard about a group of women who decided to go out into the streets of Washington DC yesterday and SCREAM. That’s about right, I thought.
I want to scream. I might even do it. But after that, it’s fuel. Fury as fuel. Whether it’s in small acts or large, I’m going to keep burning down the patriarchy, this rotten system that’s so insidious it makes us think that a man’s rage is “passionate” while a woman’s is “hysterical.” Let’s burn down colonialism while we’re at it, and white supremacy. And if these systems prove temporarily fire-proof, I’m not giving up. I’m going to take my tiny flame and light a bunch of candles and put them in all the windows of my house. I’m going to burn my energy to make space for all the stories that need to be told, that aren’t being told. I’m going to make space for creativity, because it will heal us like nothing else. To know that we are creative beings is healing in and of itself. To experience our generative selves is healing.
I’m going to model the shit out of what I want to see in the world. Can’t we be the change, be the change, be the change? Let’s do this! Let’s pour our energy and time into bringing people together to make something together. Together. Together. Doesn’t matter how small. The whole family sitting around the table for a meal counts. A soccer team of girls huddling to cheer each other on counts. Two colleagues meeting in an office to dream of using our talents to make something happen counts. It all counts. I know you know this too. Imagine what we are going to do; recognize what we’re already doing; remember what we’ve already done.
Our soccer season came to an end yesterday morning. Our last game was in the league’s Cup final. “Let’s make our season last as long as possible,” I told the players last weekend, before our first playoff game, “because it’s really fun playing together.” And the team accomplished that goal. Turns out I can coach competitive soccer; truth is, it doesn’t change my approach greatly. We had a winning season, and saw improvement every step of the way, as individuals, yes, but mostly as a team. In fact, that’s exactly how we won every game we won — as a team. We lost as a team and tied as a team, too. No matter the outcome, there was no acrimony, no fingers pointed, no blame — I worked hard to model that from the top down. Instead, there was assessment, analysis, and practices designed to work on our challenges.
“You don’t yell at us,” one of the players told me yesterday, when we were saying goodbye. “And you don’t yell at the refs.” It’s true. I don’t like being yelled at, or find it helpful or motivational, and I don’t know many adults who do; why would kids respond any differently? (Also, my voice isn’t particularly strong, so yelling is never going to be an effective strategy for communication, for me.)
For the last number of games, the girls have been asking whether the whole team could be “captain” when the referees call for captains. They really enjoyed discussing what that would look like — the whole pack of them crowding up for the coin toss — and how it would be received — how surprised everyone would be. I was thinking about that this morning, as I reflected on our season together. I was thinking about how accurate that is as a metaphor for this particular and special group of players.
How evenly the leadership and respect was spread throughout the team. How much the players trusted each other on the field, and understood each other, off the field. How thoroughly players relied on each other’s support in games, and how rewarding that was to watch from the bench.
I think this team was special because they understood (intuitively) that they were a collective body, stronger because all could be captain.
For the last game, when the captains were called, I did not go with the girls’ request to send the whole team. I’ve never seen a whole team go when captains are called, and I’m pretty sure it just isn’t done; I wasn’t prepared to introduce that kind of chaos for the refs into the ritual of the coin toss. Instead, I chose as captains our goalie and our striker, the players from the back of the field and the top of the field, which seemed to hold a symbolic symmetry, containing the whole team between them.
We didn’t win our last game. We went in as underdogs against a team that had gone undefeated all season, and we were unable to twist the storyline in our favour. We did the best we could in the circumstances dealt to us, which is what teams do. At the end of the game, the girls were disappointed, but not in each other. There was no acrimony, no blame, just tired legs and the smiling faces you see above. Plus it was fun to get medals and hoist a trophy for our efforts. Tryouts for next season start on Saturday …
This summer was busy, but it was productive. I wrote a bunch of new stories, including one for the Globe and Mail; followed my intuition and got into an MA program; gave a talk at church; walked the dog a lot; coached some soccer tournaments and (strangely enough as the season went on) lots of winning games; rode my bike all over town; started a big workshop project; made new connections in the local arts community; organized my office; had lots of interesting meetings; had the whole house painted (inside); swam in lakes and went to the beach; went camping; travelled; read books with my youngest; relaxed on occasion, let my hair down on occasion.
It was busy, but we had many fun times as a family. I wish summer could last so much longer. I wish the kids could stay home, relaxing and hanging out together. I wish I’d slowed down even more. But I’m glad for those evenings on the front porch, cards games around the table, pull-ups in the back yard, walks with friends, company, late night dog walks, mornings sleeping in, bike rides with kids, chats on car rides short and long, and big dreaming sessions with Kevin and the kids.
PS The song I can’t stop listening to right now: Feels Like Summer, by Childish Gambino. Slow down.
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My name is Carrie Snyder. I'm mother of four, writer of fiction and non-, dreamer, planner, mid-life runner, soccer coach, teacher, taking time for a cup of coffee in front of this computer screen. My days are full, yet I keep asking: how can I fill them just a little bit more, with depth, with care, with light.