February 23, 2025

Walking the Birthday Walk with Dogs

December 30, 2011 by

When you live the human-animal bond, you celebrate birthdays with your multi-species family.

Even when the birthday in question is yours and you’re getting older (it happens yearly).

Okay, we were celebrating my birthday this time. But it’s in the dead of winter, after Christmas, before spring. In Seattle. Pretty much the weather sucks.

Does Grace the Cat care? Of course, she stays home.

Do the dogs care? Of course not. They’re Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, born to flirt and goof off. They have jackets and a lazy human who doesn’t like to be cold. They can routinely trump that.

So why not take the dogs for a walk in the sun on my birthday?

There are hazards. It’s Seattle. In winter. At the beach.

You expect wind at the beach. But on a sunny day you expect sun. You forget that in winter the sun only manages to get halfway up the sky, and then only stays there for 20 minutes (15 on the weekends, it’s apparently celestial labor law). And the sun, being a wienie, races through the winter days here as fast as possible, so it can hang out somewhere warm, like, well, somewhere else way far south of us.

Birthdays may warm you up, but the air, it’s colder than all get out. Why? Because we’re way far north in Seattle, almost to Canada, which is right at the North Pole. Especially in winter. Because when you’re at the beach in Seattle, you’re right in the path of that cold north wind, nothing stops it, and why is that? Because Canada ducks as it flies over, that’s why.

So, anyway, at the beach on my birthday. With the dogs. Walking the sun walk. The dogs are thrilled because the sun shining means they can see their prey better, which is all manner of completely uninteresting inedibles that smell as bad as they look and the dogs can’t sniff fast enough.

Really. Multi-species families are cute. And gross.

But it’s sunny. Except I forgot about that halfway up in the sky bit. It may be sunny, but the sun isn’t up. It doesn’t clear the West Seattle hill in the winter. We forgot that. So we’re in the shade. On a sunny day. Freezing our city slickerness right off.

The dogs don’t care. They’re on an adventure. They’re too low and too small to be real windbreaks. And, now I notice, they are standing behind me.

Survival of the fittest. They win.

“Hey,” I say to them. “Want cookies?”

Of course they do. Walk is over. Birthday cookies coming up.

Next year I’m celebrating my birthday in the summer. Every once in awhile we have one of those in Seattle.

I hope before, well, next winter.

Happy birthday me!

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Solstice Sleeping: Dogs Softly Breathing of Home

December 23, 2011 by

I awaken in the night and hear it. Silence. I wait for more. It comes. I smile.

I hear the dogs breathing softly in the night. Now, in the longest, darkest time of the year, I awaken in the still, silent night and hear only my dogs’ relaxed breathing. I smile. It’s comforting. Peaceful.

My dogs snore of home.

I can tell them by their breathing. Murphy, my delicate, mild-mannered oh-so-polite aging girl, snores like the proverbial lumber jack. Only, size for size, decibels louder. First time I heard it, she had just come home to live with me, and I leaped out of bed, sure we were being invaded. Over 13 years later, each time a snort startles me, I know the invasion was successful, and smile.

Sometimes, most times, she breathes with soft, gentle sighs. Other times I rest a hand lightly on her back, to make sure she’s still there. She’ll rouse and snuggle up, and we’ll go back to sleep in the cold dark night, back to back, butt to butt.

I used to wonder, way back when, if I could ever love this puppy who was not my beloved, long-lost English Cocker, if we could ever fit. We were strangers, but it didn’t take long for love to settle in my heart. Her snorts, her relaxed sleep, remind me.

Now, as I hear her soft breathing, I know that love, home, settled deep in hers. In theirs. Because all my animals sleep well, comforted in their safety. Knowing we are family. We are together. They do not have to be on guard. They can let down. They can breathe softly in the night.

Love created space to sleep.

Alki, my raucous ten-year-old boy, is rambunctious by day, soft murmuring dreamer by night. His breath whispers of deep dreams, contentment, secure and relaxed and deeply resting in his secured spot in bed. Storing up for daytime mischief.

I smile in the night.

Sure, I poke Murphy sometimes when her snoring shakes me out of mine. She’ll start to grumble but is asleep at the next twitch. Alki’s soft breathy lullaby ripples mildly.

I never hear Grace the Cat breathing. No snuffles from her cat perch above my desk, no soft snores from her Snuggly Safed bed at night. She’s there. Just can’t hear her. She’ll prowl the night, inspect us, snuggle.

Suspended in darkness, I am awake, happy, content. They are here, content with me. Species mingled, personalities meshed, family.

In the heart of a 21st-century city the only sound in the deep night is a 21st-century family, sleeping the human-animal bond.

Soft breathing, counterpoint. Pause. Rhythmic.

Life resting before dawn.

How did it come to this? How did so many years go by before contentment settled so easily on me?

But it did. We’re family. Here. Now. Content. Woman, cat, dogs.

Murphy snuggles closer. Alki is still, soft swoosh rising. Grace the Cat burrows deep.

I hear the dogs softly breathing.

Yes, they snore of home. Of love.

I smile.

All is well.

I am home. We are home.

We are family.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Animal Communication: On Being Frankly at Home with Animals

December 14, 2011 by

Living with anyone, especially yourself, can be irritating. You have grand illusions about being saintly, or at least perfect, but reality doesn’t seem to work like that.

So you need a sense of humor, especially if you’re living with me. I’m lucky that my two Cavaliers, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat know how to laugh.

I love my kids, my beautiful multi-species family. They are living reminders of what it takes to live the human-animal bond. They love me, or do a really good job of faking it. I appreciate that. Makes me feel good. Illusions and all that. (I mean, really, can all your foibles be loved all the time?)

Sometimes my kids irritate me. They’re not perfect and that can make me impatient. Or at least exasperated. When their bad habits annoy me, they simply annoy me, even though I stop to think that my bad habits annoy them.

Take my Cavalier boy, Alki. He’s slowed down a bit, but he still has a lot of energy—to chase and eat a stick, track gull poop right off the seawall, eat whatever he can as quickly as he can, roll in muck, bark at anything he feels like … and gulp water just before bedtime.

One night I stomped into the kitchen, yelling at him to quit drinking. He finally stopped.

I was annoyed, since this happens almost every night. They need water, but he can overdo it and barf it (I know, I know, don’t preach about this), and it’s just not thinking. (I know he can think, he proves it all day long. He’s also really good at just doing whatever he wants because he doesn’t think hard enough, one of his bad habits.)

So, I was yelling at him to stop. I grumbled, “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You do everything in excess.”

Alki paused to consider that as he walked away from the water bowl. “Well,” he said deliberately. “I don’t get enough to eat.”

I had to laugh. When you can talk with animals and other beings like I can, you’re privileged to hear exactly what they think, and follow the reasoning process. Alki heard me complain about his tendency to do things in excess, and he went right to the heart of the matter: his favorite thing is to eat, and he doesn’t get to eat in excess. Plus he was being cheerful and logical even while being scolded.

How many of us are like that with the humans in our lives? Or our animals?

I had to stop and marvel at the mind in this dog body. The magnificent dog who chose to be part of my family. Even with my faults. Who is more patient with me than I am with him, and is thus a living example of light and love.

Nope, my multi-species family isn’t perfect. Neither am I. The human-animal bond stretches to accommodate that, if we let it. If we listen, we can hear our family, whatever the species, remind us of that. It makes life worth it. And fun.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Thanksgiving: What We Should Really Be Grateful For

November 21, 2011 by

I was thinking, what should I be grateful for this Thanksgiving? Then I saw this silly article, again, and I knew.

I’m grateful for common sense and for refusing fear.

This article, written by Joan Raymond and updated 1-25-11 at Pet Health on msnbc.com, suggests sleeping with our animals can give us diseases. Okay, it’s a good article. We have to take health seriously, including our multi-species family’s health. And we have to report on it responsibly, as Joan Raymond does. The article is not silly in the reporting but in the culture it reveals.

Reporters can’t comment on the facts or sense of their articles. That’s why they report: they give the facts and let us figure it out. We need straight objective reporting.

Those of us who comment on the straight objective reporting write about what it means to us. For me, it’s how can we re-connect people and the planet, from people to animals and the land and waters around us.

So, Raymond writes about the things that can get us if we sleep with or kiss our animals. Things like plague (from fleas), meningitis, round worms, and other horrific or just annoying things. Okay, first, really? Our animals should be healthy, just like us! They shouldn’t have these problems, so fix them already!

Here’s the problem with this reporting: it’s all filler material. No common sense. Just fear. You wade all the way through this article and find out that what they’re trying to scare us about never really happens.

People get hurt and killed in cars every day. You can sprain your ankle getting out of bed. You can choke on a cherry.

So do you avoid cars, getting up, or eating cherries?

No. You get smart. You say, no, I’m not going to be afraid of that. But I am going to be careful and pay attention.

So here’s what I’m paying attention to at Thanksgiving. Here’s what I’m grateful for:

  •  I live in a country where we can disagree and still be safe, even though there are plenty of people who would like to change that.
  • A dear friend sent me a link to an inflammatory documentary on purebred dogs, thinking that my dogs being purebreds was the reason they had some health issues. She cared. It made me think about our assumptions, which I will address in future articles. Mainly: shelters and rescue organizations make a lot of money creating fear and prejudice, when they should be encouraging people to find their heart’s match in a dog or cat. Think, people, think! Talk to each other. Love. Be lucky that your friends care enough about you and your family to say something.
  • People who were users and not friends have left my life, providing openings for wonderful new adventures, wiser choices, and real friendships. Awesome!
  • Wonderful stores like East West Bookshop in Seattle and Vashon Intuitive Arts on Vashon Island have made me and my crystal partner, Fallon, welcome. We’ve met many wonderful people. And other venues are welcoming us.
  • My jade tree, Raymond, was dying, but community came together and saved him. A 200-pound houseplant given to me by my father is going into his fifth decade. Yes!
  • My great-grandparents had the vision to settle in North Dakota and pass a piece of it on to their descendants.
  • Finally, at long last, some smart medical practitioners have figured it out!
  • I’m grateful that my writing has touched lives, and that my book, Bridging Species: Thoughts and Tales About Our Lives with Dogs, was recognized with the prestigious Merial Human-Animal Bond Award.
  • My multi-species family is proof that the human-animal bond is alive and well and sleeping cozily together at night, 10 years now and counting!

This Thanksgiving we are grateful that we are all here, together, so we can write and talk about what makes sense, what doesn’t, and how we can create love from fear, starting with sleeping sensibly with our animals.

We celebrate Thanksgiving at our house: yes, that means the animals get to eat, too (and no, not stupidly).

We celebrate something everyday at our house, even if it’s just the joy of greeting each other in the morning and at night: in bed.

We celebrate birthdays. We celebrate the day each animal joined the family. We celebrate season changes, holidays, mistakes, triumphs, a good meal, a bad meal being over with, gas in the car, sun and rain, cozy flannel sheets on a winter’s night, friendship and family.

And we celebrate reporters who remind us that they’re sometimes stuck with silly assignments, and can still keep a straight face.

We celebrate Thanksgiving. We invite the whole world to celebrate with us.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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The Not So Crazy Things We Do for Our Animals

November 7, 2011 by

Here I’d been thinking I was just a bit off. And, as usual, not regretting it a bit.

When I think about being a bit off, I understand that I’m more off than normal. At least that’s what some people tell me, because I’m making a living in partnership with a crystal ball (literally). I did, however, think that I might just be the only person out there who bought a home, and a car, for my animal family.

Thanks to Yvonne DiVita over at BlogPaws I discovered a funky website called Daily Infographic. Where I discovered, in “20 Facts about Pet Ownership,” that I am in the minority but not all alone out there, doing whatever makes sense for my multi-species family.

See Item 7: “16% of dog owners and 14% of cat owners say they bought a home or a car with a pet in mind.” That includes me.

Even back when I didn’t have an animal family.

Back in 1998 I decided I wanted a dog again in my life, after grieving for my beloved English Cocker, Maggie, for 12 years. My landlord wouldn’t allow pets, so I bought a condo. A few months later an irrepressible, goofy Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Murphy Brown, came home to live with me.

Thirteen years later we’re both still here, aging together. We’ve been joined by another Cavalier, my goofy boy, Alki, and Grace the Cat.

The  condo wasn’t the only thing I bought. By the time Grace the Cat came along 8 years ago it was clear we had car issues. The fancy Audi I’d bought to drive long distances to visit my nephews was impractical. I needed a family car: something easy to get into and out of with two dogs and a cat in tow.

The Audi went and a Toyota Matrix came. It’s a whole lot easier to get around in. Especially with the animals in tow.

And the condo? I love our condo. My multi-species family loves it. I planned for it to be a place where kids and dogs could come and go while enjoying the beach in our salty, sandy Seattle beach neighborhood. It worked really well for that. What I didn’t count on was the most obvious of all—my animals would age.

The human-animal bond is a strange and wonderful thing. Trying to live a thoughtful life is tough enough alone. Adding animals to the mix can be devastating. I wouldn’t trade it for a life without them, but I can’t sugarcoat it.

That’s where we’ve become our own strange statistic. Not surprising, really, considering the things we’ve shared, from past lives to a cherry addiction.

And a new, tough thing. Murphy and I share a gruesome arthritis: our futures our written in our spines.

It means we need a home where we don’t have stairs. I can do them okay for now, but it’s hard to carry things. Like groceries and handicapped dogs. As I watch Murphy gamely do the stairs, and Alki begin to hurt as well, I see time running out.

It means we’ll have to leave the home I bought for us to live in.

I love our home. My work means that I talk with all life. Our home, Frank, is a real living being, an active presence in our lives and our work. But we’ll have to leave him behind.

People say: “Really? You’d give up your home for a 13-year-old dog?”

To which I say, “Well, wouldn’t you?”

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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My Mom Wore Tweety Socks: Why I Care

November 4, 2011 by

My mom wore Tweety socks. She thought they were hilarious. She’d sit in her chair and raise her feet in the air, wiggling them at the world. Giggling.

Made me laugh, too.

Annoyed my brother. In fact, he was offended and objected to her wearing Tweety socks. They weren’t age appropriate.

Really? What is age appropriate? Braids? Beards? Hats in church? Cleavage? Shorts?

What’s traditional?

I asked my brother why he was so irate about the socks. Mom was a grandmother, too old for Tweety socks.

My mom was 68.

She had a collection of strange socks. She also had red hair (acquired when she was six months pregnant with me and bored) and expensive tastes, running to Ferragamo shoes, fast cars, and … Tweety socks.

When she died, at 68, I wanted certain things to remember her by, that had sentimental value, that made me smile. I took her socks. Even though I’ve since cleaned out many of the things I got from her, I kept her Tweety socks.

I found them in my drawer last week. They made me smile.

Truth is, my mom and I didn’t always get along. It wasn’t just the normal mother-daughter thing.

It was cultural.

My mom was adamant that women were inferior to men. She’d shake her finger in my face and yell it at me. Her insistence that neither of us were as good as a man because we were women still shocks me.

It wasn’t intellect. Or job. Or honesty or responsibility or respectability. It was being female. God and society told her so. That made it true.

I rebelled against that from Day 1. They slapped me in uniforms in Catholic school, and I stuck gaudy jewelry on them and hiked the skirts up. They insisted on hats in church and I wore a used handkerchief. I was a brat when I wasn’t giving in. I rebelled.

And I’m still rebelling. But that’s a topic for another day, the one that goes on about things like young women who claim they’re not feminists and take their husbands’ name when they get married. Excuse me: call yourselves whatever you want, except by your husbands’ name: culturally, intellectually, emotionally, that means you accept that you are inferior. So do men, other women, and society. Our children.

Until that changes, nothing changes, and society, and culture, remain stifled. If you act inferior, you will be. Just like my mother said.

But back to the Tweety socks.

One day years ago I was walking through Nordstrom’s when I spotted a sweatshirt sequined with a winning poker hand. Not only was my mom a poker player (a regular winner at the local tavern), but she loved those sequined sweatshirts. I always thought they were gaudy, but she liked them, and that’s still how I remember her, wearing those gaudy sweatshirts. That day at Nordstrom’s I bought the sequined horror. The excited clerk giftwrapped it and prepared it for shipping while I tucked in a note that said, “I love you, mom.”

Mom was shocked when she got it. I guess she thought I was prepping her for something horrible, like a disease or a new husband. I’m not one for giving spontaneous presents, and especially not expensive ones. But every once in awhile you get to tell your mom that you love her as weirdly as you can. That was all.

I saw her wear it once. For me. She was clearly uncomfortable. I had to chuckle at that: I never liked the clothes she bought me, either. She’d buy things that were way not me and pink: the only pink in my house is a laundry accident (well, okay, I have two cross-dressing flamingos).

My mom was smart enough to buy things just to annoy me, but only one thing ever did (for long): her hatred of equality.

I don’t live in an unequal world, because inequality isn’t the way it really is. I know. I talk with things: with animals, with our businesses and homes, with land and weather systems. I talk with them as equals, and they talk back as equals. There are masculine and feminine presences, and none of them are worth more than the others.

Think about that. A world where everything is alive and we are all equal. Think of what we could create! Think of what our children could be.

Last week when I found mom’s Tweety socks again, I thought about her, how the socks outraged my brother, and made me and our mom laugh.

I thought about her beliefs.

And her attitude.

My mother was a product of her times. She did what they told her, believed what they insisted, never achieved what she could have, not just in a career but in her life. She was always sad.

She also sold the house out from under my dad one day when he was working.

She played poker at night at a local tavern.

And she wore whatever she wanted. Right down to her Tweety socks.

Honestly, my mom was a rebel, in her own way. Not brave enough to stand up for the big things, but aware of the differences. I like to think her ugly duckling daughter’s rebellious spirit rubbed off on her.

Or I inherited hers, and am just running with it.

I wonder if rebelling is what mom was doing with the Tweety socks. Why she refused to get rid of them. I wonder if that’s part of the reason why I kept them.

Protest with humor.

Nevertheless, no one ever saw her Tweety socks except the family. They were covered up in public.

Her socks were in the closet.

No one, and nothing, should be. Not even our Tweety socks.

That’s why I kept them. That’s why I care.

Here’s to mom. And equality.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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The Alchemy of Grief: 50 Years Later

November 1, 2011 by

 

Copyright (c) 2011 by Danny L. McMillin

In Memoriam: Randall Ray Fritz, July 26, 1947 – November 1, 1961.

Years ago, I couldn’t imagine that today would ever occur.

Today, it’s been 50 years. What to make of them?

In October 1961 my grandparents came out from Montana to visit. My oldest brother, Randy, was sick, in and out of the hospital, and in those days, it was a long drive to Salem from our small Oregon home town. So far, in fact, that in September Randy moved to Salem to live with our grandparents during the week, so he could attend Catholic high school.

Just like that, Randy got sick.

I remember the last time I saw him. He was in the hospital, pale and thin beneath the covers. Alert.

I was just a kid. Naïve. Trusting. Sheltered. Optimistic. Like all kids and many adults I was uncomfortable visiting the hospital. And I didn’t know why Randy was there and couldn’t come home.

All I knew was that I had always adored my older brother, which is not the same thing as always liking him. But the sun rose and set on Randy. Even when we talked about death in school—because Catholics, at least, only talk about dying, from getting ready to die to actually doing it—I used to think that everyone could die, even my parents.

But not Randy. No, Randy would never die.

All those years ago, I didn’t know what it meant to be intuitive. I just remember what hit me in those last few moments, before we left that day. The last day I saw my brother alive.

Surrounded by family, Randy looked over at me, held out his hand, and as I reached out and held his, our eyes met. In that moment, I knew.

Randy was dying. And he knew it. In that shared moment he said goodbye.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare at him in shock.

I don’t remember when that last day was. Sometime in late October the doctors told my parents that Randy had leukemia and would die in six weeks to six months. He was gone in less than a week.

Sometime in those last days the doctors also asked my parents to allow them to use Randy as a guinea pig. Literally. They need drug trials on a promising drug that wouldn’t help Randy, but might help others in the future.

My dad was a pharmacist. He knew from drugs. My parents agreed.

That last morning my Grandma Fritz sobbed at the kitchen table while my younger brother and I played. When asked, over and over, why she was crying, she simply said she felt sorry for Randy. It didn’t make any sense to me. Nothing did.

I had no context. Why would it make sense?

Later, we were called in from playing. I was taking off my shoes when my mom walked over to me and blurted it out.

“Your brother went to heaven an hour ago.”

I stared at her in confused, stunned silence until it sunk in. I burst into tears. In some ways I have not stopped crying all these years later.

My brother’s death destroyed my family. There’s no other way to put it. My parents … when I think of them I think of impossible grief. Of two people who’d survived a world war, created a good business in a small rural community, raised their kids to be honest citizens, anticipated a future bright with promise, and lost their oldest child in a matter of days to a disease they’d never really heard of.

On November 1, 1961.

My parents never recovered. Sure, they laughed again, they raised us, they staggered on. To a degree. With pain like that you have two choices: to grieve and move on, or to block yourself emotionally. I’m not sure which is the easiest, but they chose to be blocked. Because of that, two little kids didn’t just lose a brother that day.

I think now everyone must have known that Randy was dying except the children. Everyone had time to prepare, except for my younger brother and me. I think even Randy had time to prepare. They never told him he was dying. But I know he knew. I knew that day. 

The community rallied around us. Food arrived. Friends and family and strangers flocked to the funeral home. To the funeral. There were so many flowers that the smell overwhelmed me, and, after being forced to touch Randy’s cold, stiff hand as we stared at him in his coffin, the flowers choked me and I turned and raced away as fast as I could, with my uncle running behind me trying to help. He did. But I re-live that nightmare every time I walk into a florist shop. I can’t stand the smell of carnations.

So here’s another story. For several years the community had been raising money to buy land to build a Catholic high school. That school was dedicated two years later, in 1963. My brother and I graduated from it, as did my nephews.

In their shock and grief my parents sought comfort. They decided to scrimp and save and donate $5,000 to the building fund for the school chapel, built in Randy’s memory. It was still there several years ago, at my nephews’ graduation. Once I learned the truth of that chapel, I never cared about it again. My parents had given the money they thought they would spend on Randy’s college education to build that chapel—to somehow make his death mean something, to ease their sorrow, I don’t know. Some people respected them for it. Others decided that if we had that kind of money to give away, then we didn’t need their business.

I know this sounds bitter. Really, it’s ironic. It’s all part of community, isn’t it? The not so nice part that you can sometimes understand because community isn’t perfect. It’s a whole lot of work. Even when it doesn’t work.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my brother. I carried that pain and grief for years, the fear, that many kids have, that petty jealousies somehow cause our stricken sibling to die. That took years to get over. It makes me really useful to kids who are dealing with that now, because I know exactly what they’re feeling, even if they won’t say it. But I can tell them. And their parents. I can tell them to talk to each other. To hold on.

But for me, truly, it took a dog, and a dog’s well-lived life, to let the grief go. It took creating a family of my own, and seeing family beyond humans, to heal that grief.

It took expanding community to include all life, and working to build it. It took the ongoing work of creating a community with all life—that’s what I do, however I can, in fits and starts.

And healing took a goddess, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing about grief.

Grief teaches us about all things. From grief we learn hatred. I learned to hate god. On the day we buried Randy I decided that a god who would allow my brother to die was not a god I could respect, or love, or acknowledge. Despite years of being a devout Catholic, and finally being brave enough to leave, I’ve held on to that. Call me stubborn. And consistent. And … whatever works for you.

Grief teaches us fear. If we can lose someone we love, then why risk it? Close the door and hide.

Grief teaches us compassion. Again, you can choose to block life, like my parents did, or you can choose to move on, which is what I did, eventually. Compassion helps our hearts to cry while allowing others to cry with us. Compassion gives us the freedom to reach beyond the hurt to build community. Like my parents did with that chapel.

Grief teaches us love. If I had not been hardened by grief I would not have melted with love. If I had not defied my old community, the one of faith and religion and limitations and petty jealousies and extraordinary generosity and everyday comradeship, I would not have my new community. It means everything to me.

Without grief I would not now be a citizen of the world. I would not now be an intuitive who can talk with all beings, from animals to businesses to homes, to the land and waters and weather around us. I would not now be able to offer compassion to all life.

I would not now have the crystal Fallon as my partner.

There were many things I had to re-learn in the lives that led us back to each other: Fallon, the citrine Lemurian quartz who was rejected around the world, and the lonely lost girl whose invincible adored brother died.

I had to learn the alchemy of grief.

Alchemy is magic. Transformation. The changing of one thing to another.

Given a chance, grief becomes love.

That’s what I finally learned today. The day I realized that it’s been 50 years since my brother died.

Today I learned the alchemy of grief.

So here, 50 years later, I can finally say the tears have stopped. I have moved on. It’s done now. It has been. It’s just time to say it.

Yes, today I finally get to say goodbye to my brother.

Randy, thank you for taking a drug that couldn’t save you, but is now saving so many lives. Thank you for making methotrexate possible. They use it for rheumatoid arthritis now, and at one time it helped our dad as it is now helping a dear friend; it also helped a college student I knew years ago recover from the leukemia that killed you.

Randy, thank you for being my brother.

Randy, thank you for whatever it was we learned together.

Randy, thank you for saying goodbye to me.

Goodbye, Randy.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Phoning Home: What Women Should Do About Obscene Phone Callers

October 28, 2011 by

Unfortunately, I think what most women have in common is an obscene phone caller. We’ve either had it happen to us or to someone we know.

But I have a new way of dealing with it. Won’t you help?

 An Obscene Phone Caller Strikes

My most recent experience with an obscene phone caller was shocking and unsettling in a way I never anticipated. Comcast had just installed wireless internet for me, and activated telephone functions I had never bothered with: one was Caller ID.

The call came one evening. I answered, and the man on the other end literally went off on me. Gross.

I hung up on him.

He called back several times over the next few days. I know because I learned what Caller ID was all about. One time, he left a beyond pornographic grunting message that was so appalling I had to cover my ears (not being smart enough to simply turn off the answering machine). Worse, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

My friends insisted I call the police.

Well, years ago I’d had a similar, less pornographic experience. The police came out and sympathized while not commenting on how people should protect themselves if the caller showed up in person. The phone company advised me to shout, “I’ve got your number and I’ll see you in court.” I tried that: it worked.

This time, years of technology intervened.

The Victim Strikes Back

I called the phone company. They taught me how to find phone messages (no wonder people had been complaining about unreturned phone calls) and to how to block a caller. They also urged me to call the police.

So I did. From the nonemergency number I was directed to 911. The 911 dispatcher  asked if I’d saved the message left on my recorder.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I was not going to bed with that message on my machine. But I do have his phone number.” (At last, technology works for me!)

The dispatcher wanted to know what I wanted to do. He wanted to send a police officer to file an official complaint.

What did I want to do about this man? Honest, I thought about it. The answer came quickly, unexpectedly, and was totally right.

“I want you to call his mother,” I said.

“Ma’am, we can’t do that,” the dispatcher responded.

“You asked me what I wanted, and I want you to call his mother. I bet a lot of this stuff would stop if these creeps’ mothers knew what they were doing.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Well, you should,” I said reasonably and calmly. I was so right. “Besides, I’ve got his number, you should trace that back to him and find his mother.”

“Ma’am, I’m sending an officer to talk with you.”

The Police (Sort of) Step In … and On Themselves

And he did. Less than ten minutes later one of the tallest men I’d ever seen showed up at my door, in full uniform, including a gun. Honestly, he was so big I was intimidated. And his gun—what if it accidentally fired and hit one of my kids?

We talked. I gave him the obscene phone caller’s number.

He stared at it, shaking his head. “These guys are idiots.”

“No kidding,” I said. “But tell me, since everybody but me knows about Caller ID, did he do it on purpose, so I could find him, or is he just an idiot?”

“Hmm,” the officer said. “How do you think he found you?”

“The phone book?” I said. “How do I know? I do have websites, it could be the Internet.”

And here came the second shocker. The officer’s face twitched knowingly and a brief smirk flitted across it. “Oh, you’re on the Internet,” he said.

Granted, I’m an intuitive and hear things I shouldn’t, but you didn’t need to be a psychic to know what he was thinking. I don’t jump to conclusions, but his were written all over his face.

 I was furious, but went deadly quiet. “I am a respectable businesswoman. I do not run a pornographic site.”

He had the grace to flinch and flush. But he didn’t apologize.

He filed a police report. Gave me a case number. Said the police in Oklahoma, where the phone was registered, would check it out. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

How Women Can Take Charge of Obscenity: Call Their Mothers!

Technology has such a large reach now that they can police anything. Find anyone. Anywhere. Sobering. But not real comforting. It isn’t solving our problems, like obscene phone callers. And it wasn’t what I wanted.

“What do you want us to do?” the officer asked. Again.

“I want you to call his mother. I want her to know what a creep she raised. I want her to stop him.”

He assured me that the police couldn’t do that.

Too too bad.

Really, wouldn’t respectability solve a lot of things? At least good manners?

Would wars end because women stood up and refused to send their children to fight?

Would thieves and bad bankers and bad mortgage lenders and bad businesses think twice about whatever crap they were pulling?

Would obscene phone callers be forever silenced if their mothers knew what they were doing?

Sure, some mothers don’t care. Some mothers aren’t really mothers, or citizens of the planet. But a lot of them are.

And more women are like me: sisters, aunts, cousins, friends.

So here you go. All you women out there, talk to your kids, to all the kids you know, about manners. Weirdness. Obsessions.

Telephone abuse.

Granted, our kids don’t always grow up to be good guys. But every woman out there has to try to teach them what it means to be good citizens and neighbors. Set an example of community, compassion, integrity, and simple politeness.

It isn’t that hard. Won’t you help?

Call their mothers. Embarrass all of them.

Stand up for your planet. Your country. Your neighbors.

Do right by your kids.

Make the rest of us proud.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever

October 6, 2011 by

I live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

I have proof.

Sometimes my planet is real and physical: I revel in the sun and rain, the dark and stormy, the people and the beings who make me laugh and think while challenging me to be my best, no matter what.

Always my planet is a state of mind, clear in the choice of love over fear.

Love drives the Planet of Awesome and Forever. There are a lot of us here. It’s time for everyone else to join us. Here’s why.

I keep hearing how bad things are out there, how desperate people are, how survival means anything goes.

Well, anything does not go. Not on the Planet of Awesome and Forever. Here’s what that means for me.

In many ways 2011 has been a wonderful year for me: I won a prestigious national award for my book, I launched a new kind of intuitive consultation practice—a partnership with my crystal, Fallon—and I’ve met fascinating new people on their own amazing journeys. It’s been both humbling and exciting.

I’ve also faced stunning difficulties:

  • a virulent flu that derailed most of my year
  • a crisis that both complicates and enlightens my future
  • people who learned from me and then stole my work
  • people who expected me to work for free while they paid themselves (welcome to the new feudalism)
  • negligent and uneducated vets who endangered my dogs

So here’s what I did:

  • I took time to get well.
  • I looked for alternatives that make life easier for me and for my family.
  • I turned some matters over to an attorney.
  • I strengthened my resolve to model compassionate, thoughtful interactions.
  • I continued to quietly build a business that enriches my life as it serves an enlightened community.
  • I’m bringing the vets up on charges. Oh, you better believe that one!

And here’s what happened, just in the last few weeks.

  • I am finding answers that are healthy and make sense.
  • I discovered attorneys can be a good thing, and that controversy can both enlighten and strengthen.
  • I decided that if I’d had a choice 20 years ago, I’d still choose the pain and limitations of being disabled and having to reinvent a life over being an asshole and a thief and never finding my path.
  • If you open yourself up to love, fear just bounces the hell off:
    • I’ve made wonderful new friends who think my intuitive practice with a partner who’s a crystal is intriguing, fun, and worthwhile.
    • Neighbors came running to help my recovering dog.
    • A close friend whose mother is dying raced to the vet ER and massaged a painful kink out of my shoulder.
    • A dear friend who is undergoing her own family crisis cheerfully bathed my stinking dogs in exchange for a home-cooked meal.
    • Two wonderful vets who love my dogs expertly cared for them.
    • I finally met my eldest dog’s ‘grandma,’ and we’ll be celebrating life, love, and Cavaliers with her and her family next week, on what will be my multi-species family’s 13th anniversary together.

Life is awesome!

Choosing Love Over Fear in a Practical World

Here’s what I know. Choosing love over fear doesn’t solve all our problems, because we won’t always agree. But choosing love does model our choices.

My experiences this year have sobered and intrigued me. What I and so many people see out there is troubling and encouraging. Troubling, because serious problems exist. Encouraging because many people are choosing healthy, compassionate ways to explore and resolve them.

We urgently need to define community, whether it’s our work or our social life. How do we want to live together, and how will we?

Make no mistake: living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever is not naïve. It is not turning a blind eye to the problems. It recognizes the increasing hostility in our society, the strange personal and business meltdowns that are justified in the name of survival. The disquiet is everywhere. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

Make note: it is not only humans who are concerned. Remember, I work as a professional intuitive, I talk with all manner of beings, and they, too, are advocating change.

It’s time for change.

The first change is a truth check:

  • Anything goes does not work.
  • None of us will survive if ‘survival’ defines our lives.

So here’s a plan:

  • Quit counting the desperation.
  • Start counting the awesome.

Here are my awesomes.

I have the world’s greatest family: a woman, two dogs, and a cat are proving that we’ll always be a family, in body or not, because on the Planet of Awesome and Forever love endures.

If we have to have bad days to get to the good ones, then we will. And we’ll make them count. Because there’s no other real, practical, inspiring choice than love. It’s awesome. And forever.

We live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever:

  • Where nothing is too hard or too much work or too painful
  • Where all beings are held responsible for their choices: firmly, compassionately, clearly
  • Because love and truth are always, always awesome and forever

It’s time to take back love, and community. It’s time to stand up for what’s right, to dig deep into conflict with patience and respect and compassion.

It’s time.

Come join us on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

It’s your planet, too.

© 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

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How an Eagle Kachina Accidentally Helped Build a Community

September 29, 2011 by

My mom loved Southwest art. My dad loved my mom. I loved them. When the eagle kachina dropped into our lives, I was greedily snatching as much time with them as I could, building memories.

One day my dad called and said he’d found an art piece for mom. “Not like yours,” he said wryly. 

“Oh, bummer,” I said.

We both giggled, remembering the day years before when I’d announced that I’d bought my first art piece. “Does it have horses?” he’d asked. Of course it did.

“So what is it, Indian stuff?” I asked now, referring to mom’s penchant for all things Southwest, right down to their interior décor.

“Of course,” he said. “But it’s big, so when you come down for Christmas will you take me to get it?”

“Absolutely.” I was touched, my parents never asked for much.

A Family’s Last Holiday

So at Christmas that year, I drove dad downtown to pick up his gift for mom. We got it safely home and unwrapped it together, while Dad told me the story of how they found it. Dad was crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, so it fell to me to giftwrap it, ironic, since he had taught me the art of giftwrapping when I worked for him in his business.

We didn’t quite know what to make of this art piece: about two feet wide and tall, it was a copper sculpture, partly painted turquoise, with a curious mixture of human and really big bird. We knew it was the artist’s representation of native American art and spirituality, but that was it: we were appreciative, but ignorant, barbarians.

Eagle Kachina, the tag said. Expensive and hard to wrap, I thought, and not my taste.

But it was clearly my mom’s. Christmas Eve she ripped off my lumpy wrapping and spent the next week dragging Mr. Eagle Guy, as we called it, around the house, trying to decide where to hang it.

I reveled in that Christmas. I got to help my dad give a gift to my mom. I got to listen to my mom babble about it. And I got to share a small family moment with my parents, a moment where we celebrated and had fun together, glorying in the family bond. In community.

As it turned out, it was also the last Christmas I shared with my parents. My dad died in June, and my mom 10 months later.

The Eagle Kachina Comes Home … Sort Of

When we closed up their home, my brother and I sorted out who got what. I insisted on taking Mr. Eagle Man, not because I really liked it, but because it was a concrete reminder of a wonderful last holiday with my parents, at a time when illness and disability dulled all three of us.

No question the piece came home to live with me.

Years went by. Years when I moved the piece around the house. It was beautiful, yes, but not my taste.

It also didn’t belong in my home.

Things like this happen. However they end up with us, the objects in our life don’t always fit. Sometimes we change, or they do, and it’s time for them to move on. The trick is to recognize that and to figure out what happens next.

Truth is, the eagle kachina never fit in my home. These days I work as a professional intuitive, which means I talk with things, from animals to businesses, homes, nature, and, yes, objects, including this piece. Back then I only knew that the piece was sentimental but just plain felt odd to me. It didn’t belong with me. Finally acknowledging that, I thanked it for its service to my family, and asked it to start looking for a new home, while also promising that I would not simply discard it. It was beautiful, full of family memories, and also represented an artist’s vision of a sacred object. It needed to call, and be called, home. Wherever home was.

It stayed with me for a long time, because no matter what I did, I couldn’t find out anything about the piece or the artist, or how to properly, well, rehome it. Not surprising, I guess, because it had been years, and the artist might have moved on, literally and artistically.

The Search for Home

Years went by.

One day, my new friend Tara came by. I was showing her my small condo, and she took one look at the eagle kachina and said, “When you’re ready to sell that, let me know.”

Hmm.

She told me that she collects Southwest art, and she thought my piece would fit well with a large metal sculpture that she’d purchased several years before. She’s a real estate agent and a Reiki master with an easy strong intuition, so when she said she wanted the piece, I just smiled.

She suggested that the store she’d bought her large piece from would know how to value it. So I emailed Hogan Trading Company with a picture and a question.

They promptly emailed back: not only could they put a value on it, they represented the artist, Dale J. Anderson. I spent a few minutes exploring his art at their website. Intriguing. After years wondering, all it took to find the artist was a new, visiting friend.

Strange small world. Awesome universe.

More time went by, because truth is, even when special pieces have to go, a part of you still clings to them. The kachina had to go. Talking with the piece, I knew that it belonged with Tara. The kachina and I both needed time to separate from each other: it was as if we’d both been waiting for its new home to show up before we could really say goodbye to each other. There had to be a new community before the old one could end.

Finally, I told Tara to come get it. Even though she’d only seen it once, briefly, months before, she promptly agreed.

I carefully wrapped it and Tara took it home.

Not long after, she called. The eagle kachina fit perfectly in her home: its beauty and its energy felt great. She was thrilled because it went so well with the treasured, large sculpture she’d invested so much in.

The odd extra touch: when she unwrapped it, she discovered the two pieces were by the same artist.

The eagle kachina really was home.

Treasures of Community

Truth is, I could have kept the piece in the family, or put it up for auction, or done any number of things with it. But the only thing I felt right about was honoring my parents’ love and family bond by finding another family that would fit this piece. It needed a community, and I couldn’t let it go without that.

Its home now is with Tara. For me, the circle is complete. I’ve been lucky enough to meet new people in a new community, and the eagle kachina has bridged both of them. It’s home now. And so am I.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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