"Smile" Said the Fox

Back in November, I jetted off to a write-in event with moments to spare, apparently on auto-pilot since I drove to the wrong freakin' building on campus.  I wasn't psyched about going.  I didn't feel like writing.

As I steered around the bend--the long bed, far out of the way from where I was heading--I was suddenly taken aback by the sight of a statuesque fox, perched regally by the side of the road. The rust of his fur was so resemblant of burnt-sienna background the fallen leaves painted behind him that he hardly seemed real.  I pulled over immediately.

"Well, hello there," I said, rolling down my window. "Would you mind if I took your picture?" He turned his head toward me in tacit approval, allowing me to snap a few shots with my smart-phone camera, before he moved to make his way into a nearby drainage tunnel.

"Wait!" I urged. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?" Surely this animal encounter must have carried something of higher significance.

"Smile," he said slyly, as as only a fox could. With that, he disappeared.

Fox medicine is one of cunningness. So what did this beguiling creature--this master of camouflage--mean with his annoyingly curt and incomprehensible message?  Was he suggesting I exhibit more wile in my day-to-day encounters? Was he implying I'd been too open? Too gullible?  Too serious? Not serious enough? Or, was he just being himself, tormenting me with his trickery, knowing full well that I would analyze every aspect of this exchange for weeks and weeks to come until the answer--that he was being literal--finally hit me?

I'll give you one guess.  And at least I'm smiling about it. :)

Training from the Heart

Dog training is ultimately an act of communication building as we seek to help our dogs better understand what we expect from them and how we'd like our interactions to unfold.  And just like there are many ways to interact with a fellow human, there are a plethora of choices to be made when it comes to interacting with a canine companion.

Most of us will consider among them such options as our tone of voice, our attitude, our use of both verbal and nonverbal signals, and even our training philosophy--but did you know that we also have choices about where our communication comes from? While it might make sense that our training efforts stem from our minds, allowing us to observe and analyze the dog's behaviors and make necessary adjustments to the process, I'd like to suggest that the best place for them to flow from is our hearts.

Photo by Wendy Colucci -
www.clickshootingstars.com

I offer this for several reasons.  For starters, training (or any other communicative interaction) is not  always a matter of cut-and-dry logic.  In fact, it's more subject to subtle but profound metaphysical nuances than we often realize--and our minds provide very little of use to us here.  Second, focusing on the mind can all too easily over-empower our egos as our frustrations compel us to dominate and control our dogs instead of embracing their wonderful spirits.  After all, most of us would probably prefer a dog with her own special personality to a furry robot. 

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the heart is the center of universal love and compassion.  When we are in tune with it, we can be assured our efforts are grounded in true positivity.  I call this "heart" training; we establish a heart-to-heart connection with our dogs to strengthen our faith in them and their trust in us.

This isn't to say that we should allow our dogs to overrun us or that providing necessarily leadership for a dog is unethical.  Compassionate training ceases to be compassionate if it results in the dog being banished to a crate or backyard because of serious behavioral problems--or if it lends to damage of your personal property or accelerated stress and anger. 

"Heart" training is about honoring the dogs and ourselves simultaneously.  It gives us the courage to look within ourselves and the capacity to provide whatever guidance is necessary for those tail-wagging creatures we've committed our lives to.  We hold them to a high degree of integrity but also acknowledge our own responsibilities in the exchange. 

What's In A Name?

A recent conversation among human friends called into question my adopted name.  “It seems a bit self-righteous,” I was told (by accident) by a new acquaintance who didn’t make the connection that had always been obvious to me but was obviously not so obvious to others.  I was mortified.  How could I have failed to see how calling myself "Jill of Ark" might lead some to assume I considered myself akin to an epic heroine burned innocently at the stake over her spiritual beliefs?  It seemed more than just self-righteous!

"Jill of Ark" was born early in 2008 out of a brainstorming session with a dear friend and creative mentor.  I was planning to launch a snazzy little side career as a “psychic” pet sitter and we wanted something cute and catchy by which to brand it to the world.  We auditioned several monikers highlighting the compassion and responsible care I pledged to provide for my esteemed clients, but when Daeya suggested, “What about 'Jill of Ark'?” nothing else compared.

Its echoing of the familiar "Joan of Arc" certainly gave it cachet.  It was only fitting that my real name, Jill, be somehow tied to the business as much as my heart was tied to my cause.  The “ark” (deliberately spelled with a “k” like in Noah’s famed vessel) was intended to speak to the nature of that very cause--helping animals.  Plus, at the time, I actually had two cats and two rabbits in opposite-gendered pairs, which further sealed the deal.  
 

However, the reflections fueled by that recent conversation led me to recognize not only the absence of anything on my website articulating what I stood for (which has since been remedied), but also how I'd never given much thought to what the other half of my inspired namesake contributed to that mission in the first place.  As it turns out, she overlaps more than I could have imagined. 

Am I proposing my nomination for sainthood or martyrdom?  No way!  Do I consider myself some kind of monumental crusader for animal rights or a chosen prophet of their higher voices?  Not even a little bit!  Let me make it clear that I am not Joan of Arc.  I am not anyone except an ordinary woman embracing and sharing the abundant lessons of her personal journey with love and gratitude, hoping to encourage others to do the same. 

What I do aspire to connect with is Joan’s ability to carry on with what she knew in her heart to be true despite immense struggles that threatened to impede it.   I don't yet have that courage and resilience.  I still obsess over what others think.  I still doubt myself whenever my ideas are challenged.  (The fact that I've belabored this conversation and was compelled to write this post, as necessary as it was, is probably further evidence of the case in point.)  And I desperately need to stop.

So although it may behoove me to be a little more like Joan of Arc in some regards, who I really need to be more of is Jill of Ark.  Jill of Ark ultimately seeks to evoke a spirit of self acceptance--not self righteousness--in her intuitive explorations of the animal realm.  While I will likely continue to cringe whenever someone attributes my motivations to something less than modesty, I will humbly but diligently hold onto this name and all that it stands for, now that it's no longer such an enigma to me and hopefully not to you, either. 

Sometimes, our most candid contenders can be our best teachers.  To mine, I'm deeply appreciative. 

And, besides, it makes for a pretty funny story.  :)

It's Your Voice

Man, am I struggling with this whole novel-writing thing. It feels unnatural. I don’t write fiction. I rarely even read fiction anymore. Instead, I’m drawn to spiritual, self-development work and feel it is my place to contribute to the world not a made-up story but lots and lots of true ones. And with my personal situation changing dramatically over the past week, I felt even more lost in the proverbial woods as I tried to beat this thing out of me.

“You know you don’t have to write that way,” Quincy said to me as I was fumbling around, getting ready to meet a write-in group at one of my campuses.

“But I really should. I need to prove to myself that I can.” I didn't want to give up NaNoWriMo entirely, not a second year in a row.

“What for?” he asked.

“I don’t know," I admitted. "Accomplishment? Recognition? Self validation? Insanity?”

“You don’t have to write anything at all.”

“Of course I do. I’m supposed to be a writer. And there’s so much in me that needs to come out. I feel like I have something to teach people—like you and Holly and Puff and all the animals teach me.”

“But haven’t you been doing that all along?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“And don’t you still consider yourself a writer?”

“Yes?” I asked tentatively. I wasn’t sure where he was going.

“And didn’t I tell you not to worry about planning all you were going to write and instead just write and trust what comes to you?”

“Yes. You told me that.”

“Good. Then have we found your voice yet?

“Uh…maybe?”

“It’s your voice. You can’t control it and make it fit what someone else thinks it should sound like. Be true to who you are and what you know is right.”

Still, I resisted. I spent another nearly two hours at a public write-in, trying desperately to force that children’s novel onto the screen. I attempted to make an outline, hypothesizing that my lack of direction was hindering me more than I expected. I even tried turning my font white so I could no longer see how horribly awkward my novel was coming, which had been paralyzing me with frustration and fear.

And then, in a sudden wave of clarity, I gave in. I officially declared myself a "NaNo Rebel" and began working on a series of blog posts like this one. And words seem to be flowing onto the page faster than my fingers can keep up.

Maybe there's still a children’s book waiting to pour itself out at some point, but it’s not ready now. This stuff is.

The Job of My Dreams (with Thanks to Lauri Loewenberg)

Did you ever have one of those dreams where you wake up thinking, "What the heck was that about?!"  Mine occurred a few months ago.  In it, I was evading being bound, drugged, and sexually assaulted.  I woke up trembling.  Even after I realized I was safe in my familiar bedroom and that this disturbing situation had merely been my mind's reflection, my anxieties over the meaning of it did not subside.

This was the first dream I submitted to Lauri Quinn Loewenberg, a Certified Dream Analyst, author, syndicated columnist, and radio personality.  I was terrified that I'd had some sort of premonition.  Or that deep within my psyche lurked an inescapable fear of men and sexuality that was playing out like a horror film as my conscious mind rested ignorantly.

Guess what.  This vivid nightmare wasn't about my distrusting men or escaping looming dangers.  It was about the very effort you're looking at right now!

Through analyzing the plot and imagery of my dream, Lauri helped me connect it with what was happening in my waking life--and with amazing precision.  Between the car accident that rendered me physically incapable of handling large dogs and the fact that I had just signed on to teach a much larger course load than I was used to, I was debating giving up Jill of Ark entirely.  There was no time.  I wasn't good enough.  I was so far out of touch with everything I wanted to accomplish with my business that there was no use in trying to rebuild it.  As overwhelmed as I was with my growing career in adjunct professorhood, it seemed the easier, more logical path to follow.

While I'd been inclined to interpret my dream predators in literal form, Lauri explained that they were representations of certain aspects of myself.  I'd been allowing myself to be tied down and abused by the schedule I'd been maintaining, trying to force myself into a mold that wasn't aligned with my soul's purpose.

Because I'd found one of the perpetrators physically attractive, Lauri suggested that there was something about my "attacker" that appealed to me.  Again, she was spot on.  I liked the idea of immersing myself completely in academia because my ego-driven self saw so much professional and intellectual merit in it. Interestingly, in the middle of the dream chase, I had a calming conversation with a music teacher wearing a dress with a tiny floral pattern--a representation of my creative self that was not being allowed to blossom.  Since I could not recall what the conversation was about, Lauri pointed to my need to tune in to her more consciously.

It took some time for me to do this and to fully evaluate how I could balance both careers, as Lauri promised was possible according to what she saw in my dream, but the answer did come.  I began to see that as much as I loved my pet sitting clients, this particular work was no longer serving me.  While it had helped me develop a reputation and practice my animal communication and healing abilities, it had ultimately trapped me into a limited belief that pet sitting was all I deserved to do.  It was time to let it go so that I could better focus on offering my heart as a trainer and animal communicator and writing to share the wisdom and lessons I'm blessed to receive from these experiences. 

Since this, I've sent several dreams to Lauri for analysis and am always blown away by how much practical guidance she can download from these vivid night visions that startle or confuse me so profoundly.

Lauri offers interpretations by e-mail as well as phone through her website, http://www.lauriloewenberg.com/.  Not only does she respond with careful attention to detail, she usually manages to do it within 48 hours and allows for feedback and follow-up afterward.

So, the next time you're jolted awake from a dream having that same unsettling feeling I did, remember that there's an important message for you hidden within it.  If anyone can help you figure it out, it's definitely Lauri Loewenberg.

To Mate for Life

There's a funny thing about love and happiness.  At their essence, they're permanent and pure.  We know this.  And yet whenever they're dangled in front of us, we often completely forget, convincing ourselves they're these fickle little creatures we have to track down, sneak up on, and dive toward with cupped hands to swiftly entrap them in our grasp.

About a week ago, I took a late-night drive out to Skaneateles Lake, which has long been my emotional spa.  I've shared many a dream and confessed many a secret to its crisp, clear waters.  Its quaint shorelines have absorbed liters of tears and lovingly sent me back on my way each time with restored faith that there was more to the universe than the pain and uncertainty of that particular moment.

Feeling eerily lost and frightened on the edge of the pier that evening, I heard a comfortingly familiar cacophony from the void beyond the lights' reach. 

"Oh, dear ducks!" I beckoned, "You mate for life!  How is it possible?  And how do you do it?"

Moments later, a response rolled in with the waves.  "We can swim and walk and fly."

"But I can't fly.  And I can barely swim."  It was useless.  Confirmed. 

"That does not matter," echoed a collective voice.  "You'll know in time."

I eventually wandered back to my car, feeling just as lost as I had when I arrived.  But the ducks followed through on their promise.  The next afternoon, I happened to look up at the exact moment a lone Mallard flew high overhead, higher than I've ever seen a duck fly before.  As I stood there, mesmerized, another message came through loud and clear.

"We can swim and walk and fly...and we remember we can do it all on our own." 

That's the truth I'm clinging to in this scary, unstable moment--that everything that is truly "ours" is ours no matter who we're with or not with.  Love and happiness are no exception.  We don't need to manipulate them or covet them for personal gain.  And we don't need to compromise who we are in order to maintain a successful, healthy relationship.

Now That's an Idea

The countdown clock is ticking.  National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo, or "the bane of my existence for all of November") is only 18 days away.  50,000 words in a month's time?  The longest piece I've ever successfully culled together was my 100-page master's thesis back in 2006.  And, heck, I can't even stay on any routine posting schedule with this blog. 

I was hesitant about participating at all this year.  I'm teaching seven classes.  I haven't had time to review all those writing resource books I bought--and I don't attempt anything without thoroughly preparing and studying up on it first.  I thought I could perhaps handle being a "NaNo Rebel," eking out a work of creative nonfiction, or even noncreative nonfiction, but there was no way I could write a real bona fide novel.  Not in a year, and certainly not in a month. 

Now I've been roped into a co-Municipal Liaison position for our NaNoWriMo region, which means I'll be coordinating write-ins and encouraging other Syracuse-area participants to push on to the finish--and which also means I'm morally obligated to unfurl my fingers from the mesh of that big ol' safety net I've been clinging to and free-fall into the land of fiction.  I haven't visited that place since I was about 10 years old and it's a lot scarier today.

"Quince!" The urgency of my situation seemed a perfectly reasonable excuse to disturb him from his afternoon siesta. "What am I going to write about?!"

"How the f**k should I know?" he replied, barely opening an eye. 

That wasn't the response I was hoping for. 

"I'm a cat.  I'm not a psychic." 

"I guess I'd thought you might have some ideas for me."

"You want an idea?  Don't look for an idea."  He chuckled dryly.  "Now that's an idea."

"Huh?"  I missed the joke.

"All I'm saying is that writing--and anything else that comes from your heart--happens.  You're not supposed to do any of it."

"Well, I kind of have to do something.  50,000 words won't just magically appear on that screen."

"But you still thought I was going to do something that would make it appear for you?  Heh heh.  You sure don't have the lack of imagination you're so afraid you do."  He raised the pitch of his voice. "'I'm Quincy.  Magic Writer Cat.'"   

"Very funny," I said with a sulk.  It's insulting enough to be mocked by other humans, let alone felines.

"Listen, you want my advice?  Don't worry about it.  Like everything else, if you just let it happen, it will."

"Okay.  But what if it doesn't?" 

"I said don't worry about it," he reminded me.

"I'll try, buddy," I told him.  "I'll try."

You see, ever since I was a little girl, I've dreamed of writing books, but with after every milestone I came to along that path, I simply set more milestones.  I wasn't ready to "write" after excelling in my high school English classes because I needed a college degree.  I wasn't ready after completing all those courses to fulfill a second major in English because I needed an advanced degree.  I wasn't ready after finishing my master's degree because my degree was in the wrong field.  I wasn't ready after receiving much encouragement about this blog because I didn't update it enough.  I wasn't ready after being entrusted to teach college courses nor solicited as a freelance writer and editor because none of this involved creative writing.  And I wasn't ready to follow through on NaNoWriMo because I'd never written a 50,000-word novel because I've never let myself try.

For those who've stumbled upon this page from my NaNoWriMo profile, you've busted me.  Although I'm a competent academic and technical writer who's dabbled in poetry and creative nonfiction, I'm a noveling novice.

If you're looking for solid fiction-writing advice from your MLs, go to Geoff.  He's dedicated to regular practice and is chock full of enthusiasm. But if you're looking for someone who empathizes with your paralyzing fears and will share with you every ounce of inspiration she can muster to help you to step out of your own way, I'm totally your woman. 

I wonder if Quincy's onto something with that "Magic Writer Cat" bit. :)