I try to be a calming effect around my home, passive when alarm arises.
However, the sometimes uncertain universe of freelance writing affects me. Income slow in arriving, work pitches not accepted, bills lurking, "screaming" to be paid, and food needed to "fill the fridge" changes my demeanor. So, when arid times arrive, perhaps I get testy and don't always respond to even the simplest concern or question in an appropriate manner. My daughter Stefanie recently educated me. A few Wednesdays back, she walked the shoreline of Sandy Hook in Highlands, New Jersey with her flip phone in hand. During her stroll, she dropped the phone into a crashing wave, saltwater and sand swamping the tiny box. She was able to retrieve it; luckily it stayed near her feet as the waves receded. When she returned to our selected beach spot, she said, "Well, this was fun. A little bad news, though: I dropped my phone in the water. Now it won't turn on." She said it at the time minus alarm, and I was proud of her for that, for I think she, my wife Lucille, and I knew that the phone was, maybe, now rendered useless. To give you an idea how old the phone is, I gave it as an 18th birthday gift to her in the pre-smartphone days. She had it for her high school graduation, throughout college, college graduation, and the initial years of her young adult life until age 26. Needless to say, she grew attached over the years. The phone, in fact, is older than my current flip phone, which I bought...when? So, the phone meant much to her sentimentally, and she gradually started to feel pain, especially when told by the phone supplier that she would never be able to use it again and anything that was on the phone -- contacts, messages, pictures -- was lost. I countered her dismay. "Look at the bright side," I said. "At least you were able to get to the phone. You still have it. Can you imagine if the wave had pulled it out to sea? Not only is it possible that you may not see it again (unless another wave or waves sent it flowing back), but you would also be concerned that someone who found it would have access to everything on that phone." She agreed, and the next weekend we went and purchased a smartphone, and she, as a fellow freelance writer, now sees the positives, declaring that the "drop" was maybe meant to happen, thus forcing her to finally make the (arguably much needed) transition. She has upgraded to a tool that is now benefitting both her and her writing business. And so, I want to do now what my good friend, First Service Residential President Michael Mendillo, often recommends: circle back. Stefanie had made a positive out of a negative. How about me? Our family again trekked down to Sandy Hook, and I decided this time not to embark on my norm nature walk, but instead to take an inspirational book with me and sit and read and concentrate on the words, ensuring they meet the atmosphere and the atmosphere the words. Which book would do the deed? I selected Anne Morrow Lindbergh's A Gift From the Sea, a book that I had a few times begun but never finished. A few days earlier, when Stefanie and I visited Montclair State University's Sprague Library, we met a woman on campus who was walking her two dogs. When I told her I was on my way to check out A Gift From the Sea, she said, "That book has spoken to me many times. It still does." "Spoken to me." The book probably means different things to different people, and I sensed early in reading it that, as Ms. Lindbergh had selected certain shells and detailed how the shells were shaped and applied to her life, I -- on the bayside of Sandy Hook -- could do the same with fiddler crabs inching along on the wet sand, dune grass growing wild, and the lone woodpecker and two Eastern Goldfinches that flew by and landed near me. I, mesmerized by the author's honesty and down-to-earthiness, took time to place down the book and, not pray really, but talk to God about my life; my concerns and worries, the good things that are happening (and there are), and the application of the nearby nature to my current issues. I looked at the woodpecker, spinning itself in the sand, and one of the goldfinches hopping from branch to branch on a tiny tree. "God, if you so care for them, how much more will you care for me...us?" Following my words, I sat in silence. The concerns never left me, but the stress of late were cast into the Jersey Shore wind. Steve
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I enjoy teaching writing workshops. I meet new people, learn more about them, and, just as important, attendees find inner faith and strength to release a bit or more with pen and paper.
I have been journaling since 1996, and many of my entries are much like personal blog posts you find here, or my prior blog from 2009 - 2015. You see, it's about me as well; as much as attendees are encouraged and inspired by writing prompts and the intimacy of our workshops, these folks inspire me as well to open up further, reveal things hidden within that, prior, I had no desire to release, and perhaps didn't even know were there. It's helpful, encouraging, but also non-intrusive. My good friend and host, Inspirational Life Coach Sue Waldman (www.suewaldman.com) -- whose life breathes beauty and peace -- and me never force attendees to read what they've written. It's encouraged, but never forced. Sometimes it's challenging, other times fun, all the time loving. Here are the details: "Writing, Faith and Gardens" Do you need to reveal an emotion, a feeling? Do you want to strengthen your connection to the divine? The best way to do so is pen-to-page, and in a very comfortable, non-intrusive atmosphere. Sue Waldman (Inspirational Life Coach) and Steve Sears, a freelance writer of 21 years, invite you to "Writing, Faith, and Gardens," 90 minutes of writing, connecting, and, should you wish, sharing your work. We'll meet, explore our faith, chat, and, of course, write. This is about feeling, opening up, even if just to be, ourselves. Remember: the key word here is "comfortable." Please join us on Wednesday, August 23 at 8 pm in the garden. Please register and join us. You'll learn (or maybe even revisit) what a wonderful thing writing, faith, and gardens can be. Steve Like most, my busy weekdays yield to a laid back weekend.
Consider. Monday through Friday my days are filled with marketing my freelance writing business, working on current assignments, ironing out pending projects with potential clients, and all this runs neck and neck with worries about paying bills, maintaining our home and property, health...need I go on? I think not; picture painted. So, come Saturday, I breathe a sigh of two-day relief, and work on more personal things, like this blog post or my book project. At 2 PM, I'll lower the curtain on this writing day and rest the weekend's remainder, and do what's -- in my opinion -- most important: spend uninterrupted quality time with my wife and daughter. Yes, after all that "stuff" that is so imperative during the week, "The Three Bears" finally arrive at peace. That begs a story -- the above being a prelude to where I'm going with this. Last night, I learned that a high school friend had passed away. The news appeared on my Facebook timeline and it shocked me. A few days earlier, I had wished the woman a happy birthday. Now, she was gone, her husband and children left behind. They have now entered a period of their lives that "they," meaning "others," have stepped sadly into: the death of a loved one in the immediate family (Dad, Mom, husband, wife, son or daughter), searching for answers, learning to cope. I can't imagine the pain they must be feeling. My friend's husband, on his personal Facebook page, poignantly posted that you should hug those in your life, tell them you love them, and that you should spend time with them today, for all we really have is the current. So true. In early July, our family attended a 50th wedding anniversary celebration, where I for the first time in a while danced with my wife, Lucille. Truthfully, it made my life. As I have aged, time spent holding my wife close on a dancefloor have been replaced by the "daily dreads" of concerns. During one of our dances, our 26-year old daughter, Stefanie, walked over and asked, "Can I cut in?" My wife and I obliged, and Stef and I shared a dance, another few minutes that brightened my existence. Towards the end of the event, as we were preparing to leave, a woman attending the party walked up to me and asked, "Is that your wife and daughter with you, that you were dancing with?" "Yes," I said, "That's them." She smiled and said, "You know, you look like the nicest family; so happy. You look kind of like the three bears." I took her words back to my wife, and the woman later spoke with my wife and repeated them herself. Lucille and I then told our daughter what the woman had said. About that word, "happy." Before hearing the news of my friend's passing and reading her husband's post, yesterday afternoon I had a spell of thought about a minute's length. I looked at my wife and asked myself, "What am I not doing for her? What does she need from me? How does she really feel? Maybe I should ask her more often." The same thing with my daughter. She is my "gift" since 1990. Is there anything missing between me and her? If so, what? Those needed answers, and the time to nurture those answers, are what's important and feed (and become) happiness. Steve The following was first posted on Saturday, September 22, 2012. Three days earlier, our beloved 17-year-old miniature dachshund, Jeffrey, passed away in my arms. My most popular and commented on post, I share it today, with love, on his 22nd birthday... In my three years of full-time writing, I have written 224 blog posts. This one, number 225, is my most difficult to write. This past Wednesday, at 10 minutes prior to midnight, our 17-year-old miniature dachshund, Jeffrey, died in my arms. It was inevitable; he actually had a disease that, in August 2009, forced his veterinarian to give us a “6 months to 2 years to live” prognosis. Jeffrey outlived that prediction by a year and a month, much to the vet’s astonishment. I attribute his survival to one word: love. He was loved by so many, and he loved so many. And I consider myself a member of a very special club: a group of people who’ve been lucky enough to own a great, loving pet for a companion. There’s something very special about that great fortune, being unconditionally loved by a pet no matter your mood, night and day. Jeffrey was that for us. We brought him home when my daughter, Stefanie, was just 4, and I used to wonder how many levels of schooling he’d see her through. Well, Stef will soon be 22, so he just missed seeing her graduate college, but he celebrated kindergarten, elementary school, junior high and high school graduations with her. Through the years he suffered with different types of illnesses and injuries. Tumors (all benign) on his chest (3 of them), ear and rear end; a separated shoulder when he fell from my arms to the grass; an almost-head injury when dropped by a vet when he was three months old; a fall down the stairs in our home; various tooth and gum issues; a diagnosis at age 12 of a tumor on his liver that turned out to be a spleen issue; and Cushing’s Disease. But through it all he lived, learned how to climb our back deck stairs, gallantly guarded our yard and family, even leaving in his wake a few paths in our yard that shall remain forever. He often shared a small cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with me, or sat on my lap here at the basement writing desk, or on the back deck when I blogged. When his birthday came around every August 7th, a party with cake was always planned by our family and, as we sang “Happy Birthday” to him he, like most dogs, would sing along. Twice this summer, both times prior to 6 a.m., he almost died in my arms, but somehow, someway, I encouraged him back to life, I breathing a sigh of relief as he regained consciousness and breath and started drinking water from his bowl, as if nothing had happened. This past Wednesday evening, though, was much different. Stefanie’s screams and Lucille’s elbow to my side woke me from a deep sleep. “Dad! Dad!” screamed Stef, “Help me please — it’s Jeffrey!!!” After a long evening of labored breathing, he was in her arms, his paws flailing, screaming. I descended the stairs quickly, she handed his frail, skeletal body to me, and I sat on the floor with him. His head shook wildly a few times as he tried to breathe, looking at each of us one more time, and his heart, which earlier had been beating rapidly, had slowed considerably. His breaths were now few and very slow. I looked into his eyes, which were staring straight ahead, his body limp. “I’m sorry Jeffrey,” I said, and kissed his cheek. “We love you. I’m sorry.” The slow patter of the heartbeat ceased, the breathing stopped. He was gone. I looked up at my wife. “He’s gone, Lu.” She and Stefanie cried. I’m crying now as I continue to type. As Lucille prepared a tiny palm cross to be placed on his body, I carried him to his side of the bed, Little Lady (our other miniature dachshund, occupying the other side), placed him comfortably on his sheet, placed the palm cross on his tummy, and wrapped him in the sheet, his head sticking out. Even though he was now gone, I made sure his head was elevated comfortably. That night, I slept in the living room, every so often getting off the couch and walking over to kiss his now cold head, saying, “I love you, pal,” wishing like heck he’d open his eyes and look at me. The next morning, after what was a very rough night for us, we rose early to take him for cremation, which my brother Charlie, who loved Jeffrey like his own dog, offered to pay for (”It’s the least I can do for him,” he said). We thank him so, so much. It was a beautiful day; breezy and sunny. We recited an Our Father and Hail Mary over Jeffrey, and Stef had an idea. “I think we should have him blessed first.” She was 100% right. Finally, we reached Notre Dame Parish in North Caldwell, New Jersey, and my wife spoke with Sr. Carol Jaruszewski. “Let me see if I can find someone to do it. I’ll call you back right away,” she said. A few minutes later, she called back. “Fr. Ken can do it.” We arrived at the parish, parked near the parish center, far away from the street and any traffic, and Stef went in to announce our arrival. A few minutes later, an elderly priest by the name of Msgr. Ken Herbster, walking slowly with a cane, exited the center with Stef, speaking softly to her about his own dogs. We learned later on from my sister-in-law Maria, who often attends Mass at the parish, that he had recently suffered a stroke and almost died, and had returned to the parish with much praise and love from the congregation. He looked into the passenger side window, spoke to us for a few minutes, and then looked at the afghan on my lap. “Is this Jeffrey?” he asked softly. I uncovered my faithful pet’s tiny head and half of his body. Msgr. Ken reached in and, as a few birds sang softly in the neighboring trees, said as he made a sign of the cross on Jeffrey’s side, “Jeffrey, you’ve done a wonderful job. You’re blessed now, and you’ll continue to be blessed with Jesus in Heaven.” Then, he rested his hand on the dog’s side for a few moments. It was a truly beautiful moment; our peace after a very rough evening, a comfort after all of Jeffrey’s suffering. One word describes it: Love. “Can you bless Lady, too?” Stef asked him. Msgr. Ken then rested his hand on Lady’s head. “Lady, don’t be lonely. You’re loved here.” Msgr. Ken then looked at the three of us and, with a smile, said, “Now, share stories about him.” Then he slowly walked back inside the parish center. Shortly thereafter, as we cried once more, we all kissed Jeffrey goodbye for one last time, then handed him over to the vet to be taken for cremation, his afghan, that had kept him warm all his life, to go with him. We decided that since he loved nature so much, loved to lounge in the grass, that we’d spread his ashes over local greenery to aid its growth. The past two days, we’ve shared many stories, just as Msgr. Ken suggested. Luckily, Stef had taken video footage of Jeffrey’s 17th birthday party, and we viewed the film on Thursday. He didn’t sing this year. He had an abscessed tooth which caused the right side of his face to be puffed up, but still he was excited when he saw his cake, his tail wagging slightly when he saw everyone gathered. There have been more tears than laughter these past few days, and many wishes that somehow, someway that Jeffrey might reappear. Our tiny home is a bit quieter, Little Lady appears a bit lonely, and there’s a great emptiness. Still, through it all, I’ve found the strength to speak with Jeffrey — through the clouds, in my prayers. You don’t lose a friend of 17 years and believe that it’s the end. I know he sees me crying right now; continuous, non-stop tears running down my face. I miss him so, so much. And even though I didn’t feel his pain as he was dying, as he looks down on me right now, I’m certain Jeffrey, as he always did, feels mine. That’s the definition of unconditional love. That “wonderful job” Msgr. Ken spoke of? Well, Jeffrey’s still doing it. Love, Steve |
Steve Sears is a New Jersey based freelance writer
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