Inside the Trunk

The small, ugly trunk sat squatly defensive in front of me, bound with tattered leather straps and a rusty lock. About the size of my modern carry-on luggage, the splitting wood of the battered chest dared me to brave its dark interior. What was hidden inside? I was the latest in a maternal line of ancestors to receive the gift, though it didn’t look like anyone had peered inside for decades if not a century or more. 

I held an ornate key, in odd contrast to the unprepossessing trunk, in trembling fingers. A coarse braided-hair string straggled from the end of the key. Hesitating, I then heard a voice from the ether of distant time whisper open and read. So I did. 

My name is Damaris. They say my mother killed my sister. They hanged her for the crime of murder. But she didn’t do it. I was there. I was two years old and I saw what happened. But my own life would have been forfeit had I spoken. I knew enough to be silent. The Plymouth colonies in 1648 were not safe for outspoken women, least of all for a girl child. Before I die, though, someone needs to know what happened. Mama said to me our last touch, “Pray remember me.”

Accessing Bone Memory

Martin Shaw, at 2:18 in the video says, in response to writing about what one knows:

“As a writer, I’m interested in what I call Skin Memory, Flesh Memory, and Bone Memory. Skin Memory is stuff you put on a CV … it’s objective. Then you have Flesh Memory and … it’s a little like acupuncture points. They’re the moments in your life when you’ve been really touched by something deeply. Maybe it was an illness, a love affair, something that marked you so that when you remember it, it touches you deeply. … Storytellers, or myth tellers, go deeper … it’s chthonic … it’s what Bone Memory is. … motifs and images that speak directly to your soul … but not related necessarily to anything you claim that happened around you.”

History of the Celts ... and what may have been before

I find history fascinating. What I don't find in history is certainty. Unlike many who study history (or anthropology or archeology), I see it quite simply as interpretation. Even written history is often only that which was recorded by the dominant culture and how they perceived what they were observing (since the records of those who were subjugated were often destroyed); this is easily realized when we consider how Europeans misinterpreted so much about Native American culture. If those confusions arose only several hundred years ago, all of it "documented," then it is quite easy to see how confusing history can be going back even further in time.

As I research Celtic history, I find repeatedly that each person is determined to make their interpretation one of fact. During the past years, it seems, there has been a lot of uproar regarding the identification of whether one is genetically "Celtic," but we can no more isolate our genes and DNA than we can our veins and heart. There is even dispute on whether Celtic societies were actually established in Ireland, Wales, Brittany, and Scotland, primarily because of modern linguistics; again, we can only see through a glass darkly on this or any other historical so-called definitive interpretation. I enjoy the research; I appreciate the tremendous effort involved. However, I see the endeavors as portals into what might have been, not what was (as fact), and in this undertaking to find out more about ourselves.

For me, the Celtic legacy remains its culture as a whole, not its parts as isolated components to substantiate whether someone is right or wrong. The whole view, individually interpreted, is what has the potential for helping humanity achieve greater good for every being. In other words, what in this legacy can help us lead better, more balanced lives?

That is the angle I come from, whether in my personal genealogical and family tree research, or in the fictional history of the characters in my novels. In other words, how might Celtic culture have shaped the people of the past? What might I learn from the bits gathered together into various patterns?

Stories As Potential

There was a good program by Tom at OnPoint this week titled "A Fictive, Failing Dystopian Future," that, in spite of the title, wasn't depressing to me (and provides a list of new books in that genre). Fiction has its own cycles and patterns, and that includes times when authors are writing dystopia, apocalyptic, or, conversely, utopia fiction. It depends, to some extent, upon what writers want to emphasize based upon their perceptions of the world. Again, I found the conversation quite enjoyable.

I've read books in those sub-genres, depending upon where I was in my own life journey (mostly I was reading them in my late 20s, early 30s), though I still want/need them to end on a note of optimism. My all-time favorite remains Stephen King's The Stand (loved both the book and the movie, that fall into the apocalyptic fantasy category). However, I tend to write my own stories into a stronger potential for a positive present and future. It's my antidote, of sorts.

For instance, Earth Maiden, the second full-length novel I actually completed (although it is the first I published; the first one is still sitting in a drawer) is a futuristic fantasy with an optimistic outcome...eventually. In hindsight, it does lean toward a utopia vision.

The novel I'm working on now is contemporary, not futuristic, but is also one with a foundation in the power of community and compassion, and the importance of women's roles in government for harmonic lifestyles and peaceful resolutions to problems. The imaginary town in my novel is not a utopia, though that is what the young protagonist was seeking, but is, instead, my vision of what might be possible in a non-patriarchal society.

10,000 Feet Above Sea Level

Sharing a Tale

This short piece from a novel is such a delightful tale-beginning that I am compelled to share it; please pop over to read BLUE by Marie Cartier. Not only is the story marvelous, but the message it is sharing is vital.

Maine Coast; an hour from where I used to live

Fading Flowers

photo courtesy Kerry N Barlow,
all rights reserved

I hide myself within my flower, 

That fading from your Vase, 

You, unsuspecting, feel for me — 

Almost a loneliness.

~ Emily Dickinson

When we absent our insights from the people and world around us, what is left is the ghost of a fading flower that was briefly seen. Perhaps I’ve been plucked from my nourishing garden to die more quickly in your vase as an object of curiosity, a thing to glance at even as I fade away and you wonder in a hidden corner of your mind where I went to. This is mere reflection of how we feel but don’t suspect when people die who haven’t left their stories behind except in snippets of someone else’s distorted memory. 

When I do not offer my story, and my body grows frail toward a fast-approaching death (relative to the vast expanse of time), you wonder where this vague uneasiness and loneliness comes from as a part of you remains forever curious about my life, my thoughts and feelings. “What?” you ask. “What was your life inside the walls around your heart?” As my soul pulls away from our relationship and the material world, my fading energy is unrecognized, obscured, fleeting.

Even if we don’t have the whole picture, we can immortalize particular moments. In my novels, there are parts of people I’ve known; I’m less lonely for them and others will see them, too, see glimpses of a life that made a difference … as we all do. However, I imagine how marvelous it would be if every person wrote at least one memoir of a pivotal transition or transformation in their life. This flower would be fresh forever, unfading.

A photograph doesn’t reveal soul or share story; after a generation or two passes, the photos tossed loose in the aging maple chest lined with cedar strips mean nothing. But dig through and pull up from below a sheaf of letters, a journal, a slim volume of preserved memory and the person is fresh, telling a tale of insight, of passage through the past.

Unless and until the reciting of oral history returns, books are best, paper is tried-and-true in its longevity. The books survive hundreds of years, maybe even longer now — they provide an opportunity to speak to an unknown great-great-grandchild or stranger who would be unsuspectingly lonely without having met your legacy. Maybe the paper will fade like the flower, though more slowly, your story rooted in the pages-once-living … like you were. Your body decays in the earth or your ashes are scattered, but your story means someone is less lonely for having known you beyond your death. Your descendants don’t have to access you through an archive or require electricity to read you digitally. All they need to do is open the cover, turn a page, and there you are — speaking to them, showing instead of hiding yourself, revealing the flower of your life in what may be a single petal through which they can, hopefully, hear your voice and know the essence of who you were.

And the world is a little less lonely.

_____________

More programs are being developed every day that preserve personal stories for generations to come. From StoryCorps to hospice programs to personal historians, writers and storytellers are attempting to make more voices heard; a particularly good article is “The Beneficial Effects of Life Story and Legacy Activities” by Pat McNees. 

Side Note: I often use the poems of Emily Dickinson as a portal into reflection and/or writing. Because I’m not trying to understand her meaning when writing it, the poem can become something unique to what is already simmering in my mind (whether conscious or subconscious) — kind of like dreamwork. There’s a lovely, and different, interpretation of this poem at The Prowling Bee.

Puzzle Pieces

The puzzle of morning is which piece to start with … 

the frame is so far away that we can’t see it, 

like looking across the vast desert 

and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis …

The puzzle of morning is which gorgeous piece to start with. They are all right choices, one cannot go wrong, but some will make a smooth flow while others leave greater confusion for a while. And I like how routine — or sacred ritual — or both — provides a template through the scattered pieces on the table.

The puzzle is begun. Do I want to continue working around the edges or take a chance and create a larger section of detached pieces who create their own whole but sit in the middle or to the side without physically touching the frame? The center morphs and grows, expanding. I know it will touch the frame at some point, and the image is already complete in vibration, on an invisible plane it is whole, but for now I choose the pieces, put one down because it doesn’t quite fit, it doesn’t go “here” but it will fit later — all the pieces will make sense when the puzzle is put back together just as it was originally dreamed into being. 

Meanwhile, enjoy the mystery, the journey, the process of knowing each part of one’s self and all those connections that reassure as well as surprise. 

I can’t remember what it was like not to be writing, not to be working on a creative writing project. I know I spent decades with zero creativity of story or thought — except in sporadic diary entries. Those “Dear Diary” entries that helped me tell “someone” what I was feeling, but I didn’t go the next step into trying to understand on a deeper level what I was feeling or doing.  

That’s why I believe we need to be helping children learn how to process their experiences and themselves and others. Not because I am in a position to physically help kids — I’m not — but because we all have a child inside us who is still confused or wounded. It is that child I seek to connect with, to describe through creative writing that might illuminate a hidden treasure in the dark corner, to help find the pieces of our/their lives that are mishapen and seem not to fit into any larger framework at all. The frame is so far away that we/they can’t see it: it’s like looking across the vast desert and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis, a mountain to climb or an illusion in the mind. 

But I am realizing now how one piece of my life fit into another, how saving a creature’s life ended up saving my own, how change created opportunity. And if I can see the connections, so can others. Pieces of the universal puzzle. Putting it all together for healing our planet.

born in fields of uncertainty

"Words have a weight to them. How you choose to present them and to whom is a matter of style and choice."

" … I believe my own voice continues to be found wherever I am being present and responding from my heart, moment by moment. My voice is born repeatedly in the fields of uncertainty."

"Earth. Mother. Goddess. In every culture the voice of the Feminine emerges from the land itself. We clothe her as Eve or Isis or Demeter. In the desert, she appears as Changing Woman." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice

There is so much I'd like to say about this woman, this author. She holds me breathless ... traversing her stories, treasuring the exquisite expressions felt through her words. When Women Were Birds picks up the story of Terry's mother's journals … the journals I first learned of while reading Refuge.

"A story grows from the inside our … if I begin traveling with an awareness of my own ignorance, trusting my instincts, I can look for my own stories embedded in the landscapes I travel through."

"A story allows us to envision the possibility of things. It draws on the powers of memory and imagination. It awakens us to our surroundings."

"Story is a sacred visualization, a way of echoing experience. There are lessons along the way." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, Pieces of White Shell

In all of the author's books, Terry's voice is strong and clear, and yet each book is a distinct image. I admire her ability to hold her voice, soft or crisp, no matter the topic. And she is able to balance her story within the context of the alternating story of place, something I aspire to do in a few of my WIPs.

I'm grateful to have come across this author; she is inspirational on many levels.

The Highly-Skilled Spinster

"A significant number of the women in the fairy stories are self-employed, independent and skilled. They often have a relationship -- positive or negative -- with spinning. Although most women could and did spin domestically, if she became good at it, it was one of the few ways a woman could become financially self-sufficient. (Midwifery was an alternative career.) At her trial in 1431, Joan of Arc was immediately inflamed by the suggestion that she worked as a shepherdess: on the contrary, she snapped, she was a highly skilled spinster." *

* "The dignity and independence of spinning has left an odd, hidden mark on the English language. A spinster was a woman who could spin; it was as a compliment that the word was extended to all unmarried women, because it implied that they did not need a husband, but chose freely to love or live singly. 'A spinster of this parish' comes to have her banns called not from dire necessity, but from a position of equality and independence."

~ Sara Maitland, From the Forest: A Search for the Hidden Roots of Our Fairy Tales

Spinster is clearly another word that women can reclaim on behalf of empowerment!

This book by Maitland is a gem! I'm grateful that a friend living in the UK had recommended it to me. I will be sharing more from this book in the future -- text that relates to our interconnectedness with forests as well as the uniqueness of Spirit to be encountered within each diverse forestland or woodsy copse -- but couldn't resist posting the above quote on spinsters right away.

# Top Photo: "Margaret (alone at her spinning wheel)" by Frank Cadogan Cowper (English Pre-Raphaelite Painter, 1877-1958)

The Unseen

Beyond the energies we see and touch and can activate in our “real” world there is always an ever more subtle and powerful shakti ... the more subtle, the more powerful. Human bodies are a tool for learning whereas the other life forms are for resting in the pure nature of being--more “evolved” in their simplicity and perfect alignment with life.

Little blue trillium jumpers cover the tiny bodies of the unseen as they leave the forest and reveal themselves one by one, only for a moment skipping in yellow ladyslippers among the madly waving bear grass that is taller than the tallest small being. Out in the grass in the circle in the forest, there is a small clearing where sunlight shines. Now is the gathering of love, the harvest. 

The nearly black depths of glistening green forest, a primordial expanse that is narrow in path and wide in canopy, releases a sigh of joy to witness the celebration. The trunks lean closer to the center of the circle, arching their spines so slightly that one can only feel the lean rather than see it, and their leaves or needles shuffle noisily as a zephyr soars through. Dew falls onto stems and moss, drip-drip-drop, in a rhythm older than the songs of the flowering indian paintbrush nodding and bobbing, glinting their inner essence among the tall grasses imitating the pin points of light in an ebony sky still hours away. 

Going home, I am nestled into a tiny plot of verdant forest so rich that my eyes are soothed in an instant of gazing outward. Clouds drift by one after the other so that the sky would seem covered if one wasn’t watching for the perfect gaps of blue and pale yellow light peeking through branches as if to check on all we do and wink at us quickly before the clouds close their eyelids for long blissful pauses that are the full presence of existence. There, the pause is the sunlight; here, the pause is the shade.

Walking along the narrow rainforest path, the ground is spongy, the air is moist, and the more-than-human voices are slightly muffled as if with a light cotton that allows the sound to emerge in the softness of a deep reverential prayer that sinks into soil and bark and skin. Large knobby knees of ancient trees make sure to say hello and catch me when I fall while looking into the forest beside me knowing I am being watched yet feeling completely safe. All around me are the sentinels of my soul and when I embrace one I feel them all respond with a pulsating flow of graceful compassion and I can cry into the bark that is softened already from the continual tears that Gaia sheds for the world. Here we are sheltered and can spread ourselves thin until I disappear cell by molecule by atom and am swept into the vast heart of misty oneness. 

I could become one of the little people, the unseen who aren’t really people at all, of course, for they are part of the elements more than the ego, their identity is reflected in the plants and animals of the penumbral glades and forest nooks where they shapeshift and live except on the occasional celebrations when they weave tiny bodies that confuse the senses and elude the mind. For I don’t see them with my eyes but with my soul and realize we are all the same.

I do become one of them and disappear into the play of waving grasses and bobbing blossoms, for a time forgetting that I was once a human. I don’t want to go back to the other form, and I have the choice. Do I take it? Do I choose to dance and play and disappear into soil and rock and acorn and pinecone and mossy carpets and mushroom caps? Do I choose to run as deer or hop as rabbit or toddle along as the turtle in and out of puddles and ponds? Hug a tree or become a tree? Leave the human world behind and merge into the enchanted realm of deep, moist, luxurious, nourishing womb? Do I reverse the process of living as I am born into the real world instead of dying daily in this one from toxins and ego and fear of over-culture indoctrination? 

Imagine the bliss... I can feel it now when I close my eyes and release this human body and become the universe that is older than time, greater than space, more wise and compassionate than imagined possible ... and in that moment I reach out to the suffering of the poor ignorant humans who are just beginning their journey to Truth, they struggle so, and I lift up that one by revealing a flower, and to that one I offer a branch to lean on, and to another I open my arms to embrace the tears that become the droplets glistening in the emerald forest.

in the dark moon night

The wet blanket was tossed over the fire to smother the flame as quickly as possible. Someone was coming, I was sure I heard a footstep crunch toward me from the darkness, and we don't want to be seen. 

We weren't supposed to be here, see, the land was off limits, private property, only those dying few who had lots of money were allowed in here. A good heart didn't count for squat among those kind. This land was held and used by The Moneybelts; I heard their ilk were called the something else a long time ago before the awakening, but it's not important anymore. Now there were still a few private lands of lush forest and majestic mountains, like here, but no one could visit except the last remaining strange ones called The Wealthy. 

So we sneak in and commune; we are here to celebrate life within these private velds of green. Instead of hoarding Her energy, we honored and gave offering to Her, our Mother Eairth. Oh, these weren't the only green spaces, not by far. We've come a long way since the time of the Enlightenment when the scales tipped and then fell over to rust, the time of the Change when the majority simply refused to do any more work until all creatures and people were cared for and provided with enough. No, these green spaces still 'owned' and gated and isolated by The Moneybelts were few, but desperately in need of ritual cleansing to set free the spirits that lay within, remnants of an ignorant time when people thought bodies were the most important part of Life and so clung to them even in death, afraid to let them go, terrified of letting them return to the Mother as nourishment through transformation.

"I think whoever it was is gone." Cloud's whisper reaches my ears in the silence of the woods, carried upon the shadows of the dark moon night. 

We pick up our shovels once more and began digging with reverence, casting prayers upon the elements, talking to the ones who were held confined to this space, afraid to leave because of the energies that bound them to their bodies within the vaults guaranteed to last centuries. Striking a hard surface, me and my friends brush the last bit of dirt away gently with our hands and open the lid of the casket. "Mrs. Miller, you're free," I whisper, and my sisters join me in an ancient chant. We take her bones and all that is left of her body, placing them within a hemp bag to take back to the funereal pyre built earlier in the night. I feel her sigh of relief caress my cheek upon the current of light cool breeze. Climbing out of the grave, I look across the dark expanse defined by tombstones and giant pine trees that rise tall and thick among the old stone markers barely legible, I see the bushes and ferns spreading themselves wild around the maze of once perfectly aligned burial sites where roots and quakes have shifted and lifted them out of their purchased complacency. Hundreds more to go, one at a time. 

While we have the legal right to conduct these acts and rituals of liberation, provided by the Council of Elders, this compound and those like it remain heavily monitored by the Old Guard who cling to their archaic ways in spite of all that has been accomplished since the Great Shift, and it is said in hushed tones that they are still willing to kill just to maintain control and a semblance of power over others. They are so few now, they're no longer a threat to the greater good throughout most of the world. But here, we are careful not to be seen. No one could imagine killing another human these days, or any living creature for that matter, but these people might. So rather than risk it, one of the initiations into becoming a priestess of passing is to slip into the fenced compound and free souls from their prisons. We know our duty and try to stay focused, but every so often one of us lets slip a nervous giggle. Which is what thirteen-year-old girls are prone to do, after all.
_________________
This is a free write from the ClarityWorks prompt "wet blanket" in my email this morning. I think part of this flight of fancy came from watching the movie "The Magic of Bell Isle" last night; fabulous movie with Morgan Freeman about writing and the imagination and "seeing what isn't there." A wonderful scene from the movie HERE but don't watch the official trailer as it gives away too many great lines and scenes! LOL Anyway, awesome film.

The Guardian Part 4

I wait in the small, dark room feeling miserable. Where has she gone? I got too nervous and the smell is nearly overwhelming. I shiver. I’m all alone with only the silence of brick and wood to hear my cries. How long have I been here? What’s that? That’s her voice! I stand and bark, I paw at the door.

The door opens and I crawl over to Rain. 

“Oh, baby.”

She’s back. She came back! Is she mad at me? I cry and, as she kneels on the floor, I scramble into her lap. She hugs me tight and I tuck my nose into her armpit.

“I’m sorry you were scared, but I couldn’t take you home with me. It was only a couple hours but it must have seemed like forever to you.”

Rain’s voice is shaking and I lift my head to lick the salty wetness from her cheeks. She smiles and I know for sure she’s not mad. 

“Let’s go outside and then we can get this cleaned up before anyone else gets to work.”

I’m all wiggles now as she puts my new leash on the collar. I pull ahead toward the sunlight I see at the end of the hall. It’s just a crack of yellow where someone propped the door open but I smell the morning calling in cheerful notes of greeting. Rain talks to one of the men who always speaks in a calm voice to me.

“Thanks, Tom, for opening the door.”

“You bet. Figured some fresh air would help clear out the stink. Did she make a big mess in the bathroom?”

“Yeah. But it’ll be easy to clean.”

“Poor pup.”

“I was here working until nearly three this morning, but I couldn’t take her home with me. He would have been furious.”

“It’s okay. No one else will be here for another hour or so.” The man’s voice was fading as we headed out the door. 

Rain follows me as I pull ahead of her across the hard pavement to the wonderful grass and weeds. I squat and pee. I’m surprised I have any left. I thought it all came out in the room when I was all alone. 

“Good girl. Good potty.”

Well, at least Rain is happy with me out here. I’m so hungry. I run up to Rain now that I’ve peed, eager to have breakfast and play. She lets me go to the end of the leash and we walk all over the field. I breathe in the dawn, so cool and crisp and full of smells. Soon though -- too soon because I wasn’t done sniffing at the hold I found -- we began walking back to the big building. I started to lag behind. Was Rain going to put me in the dark room again? I sit down and the leash goes straight between us. Rain stops and comes back to me. I just stare at her. 

“Okay, listen. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do last night.”

She wasn’t mad. Her voice was soft and light, and she sat down on the curb to talk to me.

“I have a plan now. Not a great one. But it’s the best I can come up with. You’re just going to have to trust me, baby.”

I listen. And I sit as close to her as I can get, my chin on her knee as she pets me. She sinks her fingers into my fur. I relax a little. Okay. I can do this. I can be brave. The tip of my tail taps the concrete, and Rain smiles.

“Good girl.” She puts both hands on my face and rubs the base of my ears. I groan in pleasure. 

Rain then attaches the leash to her belt loop, and pulls a handful of kibble from her coat pocket. She calls the leash our umbilical. I don’t know that word, but I can sense safety and connection. So it’s good. I think it means she doesn’t want to lose me, and I trot along with her. 

I let my thoughts rest and just tag along wherever she goes, sniffing and watching. Back and forth we go. Rain gets a bucket, and some other things, from a musty smelling closet. Then she goes into the dark room where I made the stinky mess. I halt and sit just outside the door. I sure am glad that I don’t have to go back in there. Bad place.

* *

I feel good. I’m stretched out on my side, nearly dreaming. This was a nice day. I stayed with Rain or under her desk most of the time and I watched all the people and machines. No one paid me any attention. I guess they were used to me already. This is way better than being on the farm with Big Man. I kind of miss running loose in the fields after the cattle, but that wasn’t very often and I’m already forgetting those beasts with their clumsy, slow way of not going where I wanted them to go. And sometimes they would snort and kick at me with their hind legs when I got too close. I always had to watch them carefully. So maybe I don’t miss them. This is better.

Oh good! Food again. I alert and sit up. Rain laughs. I notice that whenever Rain eats, I get to. Not the same food thought. She gives me yummy crunchy nuggets while she eats gooey food out of a paper bag. Her food smells different than mine. I don’t complain, though. I eat what she gives me. Then I stare at her while she eats. I don’t whine, just stare. She smiles and, once in a while, gives me a tiny bit of her own food. I take whatever she gives me carefully out of her hand as I don’t want to hurt her. She always tells me how good I am.

“Okay, baby, it’s five o’clock. Time to go.”

That word “go” is one I know. I jump to my feet and wag my tail. I think it’s time for The Plan. Rain told me about it but I didn’t understand most of what she said. But I trust her. 

* *

Oh no. I stare straight ahead. The noise of lots of dogs barking is making me curious. I can’t see any of them, but I know they are just beyond the trees. But my belly is all twisty from the ride in the car. Rain had put the window down for me but I still don’t feel good. I don’t think I like this place. Why are we here?

We both sit here in our seats and I can feel Rain’s sadness. It’s like waves flowing over me. She pushes the fingers of her right hand into the thick fur around my shoulders and rubs. I feel taut nerves sending little sparks off her fingertips. 

“I hate to do this, baby, but it’s the only option.”

I hear the constriction in her voice, and I put my ears flatter on my head. I don’t care at all about the other dogs now. I only want to be with Rain. I start to tremble.

“We better get this over with.”

Rain sighs and opens her door. She swings her legs out and stands. I scoot across from my seat to hers very fast to follow her, but she’s quick, too.

“Hold on!”

With one hand she holds my collar and the other snaps the leash onto it. Good. I like the leash because it connects me to her. I hop out of the car as she steps back. We walk toward a wood building, the sound of the car door slamming behind us is loud as a shot. I slink along next to her legs. I’d sit down and refuse to go further but I don’t know where I am. And I don’t want her to leave me here in the dirt driveway. 

Together, we head for the big blue door.

~ to be continued ~