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Furry Siblings: Partners for Life

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It’s heady stuff to contemplate introducing a new animal into the household system.  Nigel and I have been recently contemplating adopting a dog or two, and it’s a careful and reflective process for us both.

Victorian Greeting Card

I come from a long line of pet owners, with documented photos of cats-in-arms going back to my great-grandfather on my father’s side.  Looking through his daughter’s journals (my grandmother), I discovered that my father’s first word was “kitty.” My father’s admiration and deep affection for cats lasted a life time, and he was especially fond of Siamese cats.

The first cat I remember was my father’s seal-point Siamese, Simba. After an initial worry expressed by my grandmother on my mother’s side (due the old adage that cats could “steal a baby’s breath away”- a folk belief explanation for crib death), Simba was gradually permitted to nap with me in my crib. She did tend to like to sleep by my face and on my head, but she never seemed intent on smothering me, just on keeping warm.  She was also quite fixated on keeping my ears clean, an experience which always ended the nap abruptly with squeals of ticklish laughter from my little self.

“Hamsters Require All the Comforts of Home”

For some reason which I have never explored, a social hierarchy of pets existed in my childhood household.  Only the adults, my parents, were permitted to have cats. My two brothers and I were permitted to raise any number of hamsters, gerbils and mice.  However, cats were clearly named and owned and raised by mother and father.  I believe that this is what contributed to my earliest relationship with cats as siblings, rather than as pets.  Cats were emotional and spiritual equals, deserving respect and understanding of their language, needs and culture. In retrospect, I now realize that my mother very much expected me to care for animals (cats especially) with the sense of responsibility an older sibling should have for younger siblings.

“Adopt a Cat Today!”

There was only a single adventure into having a dog by my parents, when my mother briefly kept a Pomeranian.  The subsequent story of “Fang” (as he was called by my father) ended quite badly, as that particular Pomeranian had a penchant for howling while my father played his alto recorder, for running out of the house unbidden in the worst sort of weather, for peeing wherever it liked and for biting small children’s toes and noses. Animated like a possessed fluffy bedroom slipper, this dog also tended to greet visitors to our home by firmly locking his forelegs around a person’s calf in order to zestfully “make love” to their ankle.

Fang was soon given a new home with a gay couple who adored him. However, I’m quite sure my mother never forgave my father for having to give up the Pom, since later in life she often fanaticized of getting a miniature apricot poodle, “After your father dies, so that it can accompany me whenever I visit your father’s grave.”

“Fang” was actually named “Frederick Bartholomew”

There were many cat siblings in my parent’s home throughout my growing up years. After Simba came Bazarras (father’s Siamese) and Mindy (mother’s tortoiseshell Persian), who had a lovely litter that all found homes among my parent’s friends. Then there was Baba (father’s Siamese) and Tarus (mother’s chinchilla Persian).  Later there was Miss Kitty (father’s Siamese) who continued to companion my father after my mother’s death.

Willow & Sylva’s Baby Picture

I didn’t adopt cats myself until after I was married and setting up my own household.  Willow and Sylva came into our lives after in the second year of our marriage when the kittens were discovered at four days old in someone’s open garage and brought to my vets.  Asked if I would be willing to foster them until they were of an adoptable age, I readily agreed to take the two gray tabby babies home. Needing to be fed a special formula at least 4 times a day, Nigel began getting up with me to nurse them with syringe barrels at first and later with small bottles as they grew.  Even after the first week, we knew we could not give them to anyone else.  They were ours for life.

“Sylva in the Cupboard”

“Willow After a Sunbath”

When the cats were 4 years old, a friend who raised collies asked me if I would be willing to adopt the only surviving puppy of a litter exposed to bacterial mastitis.  The puppy had been resuscitated 3 times, and my friend did not feel she should sell the puppy but rather adopt it out.  That’s how I came home with Bonnie, the blue merle collie.  A year later, the same friend approached me with another collie puppy that had stopped breathing and had been resuscitated after its mother mistakenly rolled over on him. And that’s how we got Bonnie’s half-brother, Dougal.

Bonnie & Dougal Visit Fort Casey, 2004

We enjoyed all our furry children very much and have been deeply saddened over the 4 year period when one-after-the-other, they each came to the end of their lives with us.  Sylva died first in 2006 at 11 years old.  Bonnie died in February of 2009, nearing the age of 10.  She was followed by Willow at the age of 15 in October of 2010, and Dougal who was nearly 11 years old died in February 2011.

I truly hope they will be in my heaven.

Broken hearted after Willow’s death, I determined that there were more kitties in need of a home, and that I needed them.  Searching the adoption data bases, I discovered that an adoption center in Maine, near where I was living at the time, was having difficulty finding a home for two snowshoe Siamese kittens (a brother and sister) that were highly bonded and that the center did not want to split up.  This was the perfect situation in my mind, and I gratefully welcomed Samantha and Devon into my life. They moved with me back to Washington, and have recognized Nigel as another kindred nurturer.

Devon & Samantha, Snowshoe Siamese

Several months have passed since Dougal’s death, and Nigel is ready to consider another collie, one that he would like to train as a visitation dog, which is what I had trained Bonnie to be (she accompanied me on visits to hospice patients when we lived in Indiana).  Nigel would like another blue merle collie, and I am torn between adopting a second collie for myself or going toward a working companion that is a little smaller, lighter and easier to manually maneuver for bathing, grooming and travel.

As Nigel researches reputable collie breeders, I have been trying on the idea of adopting a miniature long-haired dachshund.  They may be small, but they have big dog likeability and a good temperament.  All dogs, big or small, require healthy social training from their earliest days in order to be good service partners. I have been in serious reflection about what dogs to bring into the family.  Willow and Sylva as cats were very tolerant of Bonnie and Dougal as dogs, while the latter were very respectful of the former.

Miniature Long Haired Dauchshund, Likely Candidate

So, with optimism and caution, we are preparing to soon welcome two dogs whom we do not yet know into our midst.  We know that our lives will be both richer and more complex.  I hope that we will be good for them as they for us, and that we will be a family of partners enjoying life together and bringing one another much love, genuine companionship and many new happy memories of life with those who are beloved.

Domestic Harmony Requires Patience from All Species

The Stuff of Life

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The Wooly Green

Whenever I know that I’m going to travel anywhere, I ask people if there’s anything they would like me to try to find or pick up for them where I’m going.  I mean anywhere I’m going and anything someone might like to have.  Whether I’m headed to Safeway in Freeland on Whidbey Island or going to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur in Paris, France, I’m ready and willing to try to find that little something you’ve been secretly hoping for but feel too bashful to ask.  Most of the time, my keen hunting persistence pays off, and I’m able to bring back the desired trophy like a cat with a very annoyed, soggy mouse.

I make my hunt-shopping offer for two reasons. Firstly, I fondly remember how wonderful it felt as a little girl when my father would return with a little gift for me from an exotic business trip (“Chicago” and “Sante Fe” sounded like very exotic places to me at the age of five), and in turn I now enjoy being able to surprise someone with an item they wouldn’t be able to find at home.  Secondly, having an excuse to shop my way across continents contributes to a deeper exploration of my environment and the experience of novel (sometimes outrageous!) adventures that I wouldn’t have otherwise. Ultimately, hunt-shopping is a form of play for me.

Perhaps considered a fool’s errand by some, hunt-shopping helps me engage the world and the people in it in ways that introduce me to what is foreign within a familiar context.  Ostensibly, through the social exercise of shopping I’m looking for stuff.  However, on a whole other level, I’m seeking adventure and knowledge about where I am. Also, my tastes (like my bank account) are modest, if somewhat oddly balanced between the ridiculous and the sublime.

True to my usual invitation, I asked friends and folks at large if there was anything in particular I could bring back for them from Ireland specifically or Great Britain in general.  I was gratified by requests for tea biscuits, loose teas, a cross, music books and rocks.  It’s always interesting to me what speaks of “place” to different people. Some vicarious pilgrims quite literally want a piece of place; I always get requests to bring back rocks – as though I might be going on an Apollo mission to the moon.  Airport luggage handlers are consistently amazed at the weight of my carry on, “Such little bags, good for bench pressing!”

Chris Lubinski selling her wools & yarns

One request that particularly engaged my sense of exploration came from a friend of mine, Chris Lubinski, who seems to have arrived in this time from another era.  Chris and her husband, Jerry, live on a wonderful wooded farm on Whidbey Island where they care for a large menagerie of animals including cairn terriers, mules, horses, and Shetland sheep.  Their place is called Whoamule Farm, and you can find them here:  http://www.whoamulefarm.com/.

Chris is a fiber artist, working the wool of her sheep through all the stages of cleaning, carding, roving, dyeing and spinning.  She asked me if I could bring back some “rovings” of Irish wool.  Rovings are cleaned and carded wool that has yet to be spun.  Chris had been trying for many years to locate a woolen mill in Ireland that would sell and ship un-spun wool, but she had not been able to locate a willing source.

[Enter international hunt-shopper extraordinaire – me!]

Our fourth day in Ireland finally afforded me the time to hunt for the elusive wool rovings.  By then, my husband and I had travelled from northern to southern Ireland and happened to be staying near Killarney.  After stopping into several stores that sold wool products, I located a knitting supply shop where the owner had no idea what I was attempting to describe…”Rovings…you know, the fluffy phase of wool making…before it’s spun…the stuff little woolly art animals are made of…like little sheep!”

She peered over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and observed, “Well, yes, sheep do tend to be made of wool.  Especially the fluffy kind of wool.”

“The Kerry Woolen Mill”

Actually quite charmed by her, I proceeded to compliment the fineness and interesting blends of the yarns in her shop.  I chatted happily and sincerely about the wonderfulness of all things Irish.  I bought a knit cap. Eventually, after 25 minutes, she owned as how the woolen mill on a side road of town might have what I was hunting for, though she still seemed to question the physical nature of “fluffy” wool and assured me that Irish sheep grow wool for a cold, dank climate – wool not at all “fluffy” but course and scratchy.  I thanked her genuinely, pulling my new wool cap over my ears and headed out of the store and back into the cool misty rain of an Irish summer evening.

“The Machine Loom”

The 17th century Kerry Woolen Mills is located about 8 miles west of Killarney in Country Kerry on the Ring of Kerry.  The mill is one of the last surviving traditional mills still manufacturing in Kerry. Originally founded over 300 years ago to alleviate local poverty, the mill drew hydro power from the nearby River Gweestin in order to drive its machinery and provide the water necessary to wash and dye its wool. The mill was bought in 1904 by the Eadie family, who had previously been in the wool business in Fermangh and Scotland.  The family is now in its fourth generation of ownership of the Kerry Woolen Mills, producing everything from scarves and sweaters to blankets and rugs.

The old buildings of the mill were a treasure trove of wooly exploration to me.  Entering first by way of the gift shop area, my senses were delighted by the textures and colors hanging and draped over every possible surface and shelf, burgeoning in the close quarters of long floor-to-ceiling wooden hall.  After the few timid moments it took me to overcome my concern of being intrusive, I asked the clerk behind the large wooden counter if they sold wool rovings.

At the sight of her initially puzzled look I had a fleeting moment of despair, but I persisted with a rather ludicrous description of wool processing (something I have never done myself and which the clerk undoubtedly knew intimately).  Nonetheless, when I reached the point in my tale when I was pantomiming what I  hoped was at least a gross approximation of manipulating fluffy wool between two wooden hand paddles, the clerk exclaimed, “Oh! You’ll be wanting carded wool!  We have lots of carded in many colors, Dearling.  Would you want to have a look in the mill building to choose what you will?”

Oh, boy, would I?  Yes-sir-ee-bob!

Like a service guide to the woolenly challenged, the cheerful clerk wove me through the back rooms connecting the gift-shop to the expansive mill area.  I was in fuzzy heaven.  Cautioned by the clerk to be mindful of the moving parts of the machine loom currently in action across the full breadth of the warehouse, I was threaded at last to the eye of bliss – the massive collection of giant open bags of carded wool.

“Giant Blooms of Carded Wool”

Before me bloomed rounded pods of several natural (un-dyed wool) hues as well as jewel toned wool of bright oranges, reds, greens and blues.  I filled two large, clear plastic bags with puffy rainbows of wool gauze – delighted with the successful outcome of my hunt-shopping expedition.

However, my real reward was being able to surprise Chris Lubinski with what I was able to procure for her.  If you should ever have need or want of carded Irish wool (or yarns), you can order directly from Kerry Woolen Mills by visiting their website at: http://www.kerrywoollenmills.ie/index.php

I should also mention that I came across something quite wonderful that the Eadie family made on their magical cloth loom and shipped to me.  You see, after stuffing my plastic bags with colorful wool, I returned to the gift shop area to discover one of the family owners of the mill working behind the counter.  Our conversation revealed that he was an active lay Eucharistic minister in the Church of Ireland and that his mill had recently produced fine wool cloth in all the liturgical colors for new cathedral vestments ordered by the Roman Catholic Church of Ireland, who subsequently purchased the wool cloth in every color except white.

“Would you like to see it?” asked the mill owner.

Holy smokes, would I?

“White Wool with Gold Accents”

The white wool cloth was extraordinary, appealing to my sensibilities in every possible way – from its supple softness to its modest pattern of fine golden threads.  I asked reverently if a liturgical stole could be made of it and sent to me across the pond.  “Absolutely!” was the pleased answer. Someday, perhaps, I will be able to order a set of altar cloths and vestments in the same wool, but I am very happy to wear my soft, wooly stole and remember Ireland and the successful hunting trip in Kerry County.  I found so much more than “stuff” there that I will keep in my heart, all the days of my life.

Of Mists and Revelations

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“Misty Vale of Ireland”

As my husband and I drove through the Irish county side, the rainy mist drew back from time to time to reveal startling glimpses of Ireland’s past.  I can well believe the legends of those who have stepped into that temporal mist, never to return.  In some very important ways, the past is still very much alive in Ireland.  Stony ruins and oral lore share equal social commerce with internet cafes and university libraries.  And yet, an exploration into Ireland’s unique history of law, religion and society reveals a world in many ways far more progressive than the future it would know.

6th-7th century saints such as Aidan of Lindisfarne, Brendan (the Navigator) of Clonfert, Brigit of Kildare, Gobnait of Ballyvourney, Colum Cille (Columba) of Iona and Hilda of Whitby founded religious communities built as much from Irish pre-history as from Irish stone. They lived at a time when all that had gone before was only just beginning to be entered into written form.  Transitioning from “pre-history” to “history”, law and doctrine as well as their interpretation and application had been until then a matter of oral tradition.

“St. Gobnait of Ballyvourney”

However, Christianity was a tradition of the book, as was its religious ancestor of Judaism.  Consequently, carvings and illuminations of early Irish saints frequently depict them as either holding a book or as writing in one.  Not coincidentally, the first written Irish appeared in the fifth century, around the same time as the initial Christianization of Ireland. Called Ogham script, written Irish is formed of a series of grooves carved on the corner edge of a shaped stone. Each combination of grooves represents a different letter of the Latin alphabet, and a number of Ogham stones have been found in both Ireland and Wales.

“The Ogham Stone of St. Beuno’s”

Being long before the printing press, the only way to acquire an early Christian book was to hand-copy it.  In fact, it is said that the first instance of copyright law can be traced to Colum Cille (St. Columba).

As the story goes, Colum Cille was known to be an avid copyist and illuminator. His former teacher and friend, Finnian, had just returned from Rome with a highly-desirable copy of Jerome’s Latin translation of the bible created some 100 years earlier.  Though Finnian was agreeable to Colum Cille studying the book, he clearly did not want Colum Cille to copy it.

“Case for the Bible Belonging to Colum Cille”

Finnian’s resistance seems to have been in part because the commentaries and later illuminations apparently included some gnostic interpretations and symbolism considered to be out of step with the emerging orthodoxy.  Perhaps religious leaders in Rome thought it just as well to have the valuable but challenging manuscript removed from the country.  At any rate, the bible went with Finnian to Ireland, and Colum Cille wanted a copy of it.

Refusing to be thwarted by Finnian’s reserve, Colum Cille copied the manuscript surreptitiously at night. Employing the practice of creating text pages from vellum (specially prepared calf skin), Colum Cille applied his art until the manuscript was fully copied. However, his secret was eventually outed, and an outraged Finnian took Colum Cille to legal arbitration in the court of Diarmaid, the High King of Ireland.  Finnian argued that the book was his property and that copying it was a violation of his rights.

“Christ Enthroned” Book of Kells

Colum Cille’s counter argument is said to have included something of the following:

Learned men like us, who have received a new heritage of knowledge through books, have an obligation to spread that knowledge, by copying and distributing those books far and wide. It is wrong to hide such knowledge away or to attempt to extinguish the divine things that books contain. I acted for the good of society in general.

King Diarmaid ultimately forced Colum Cille to return the copy to Finnian with the conclusion that, “Arbitrators have always described the copy of a book as a child-book. This implies that someone who owns the parent-book also owns the child-book. To every parent its child, to every cow its calf. The child-book belongs to Finnian.”

“St. Columba in his Coracle Boat”

In making his ruling, Diarmaid applied an ancient oral code of legal tradition now known as Brehon Law. Within Irish culture throughout the Iron Age, Brehon Law reflected an ancient and existing social equality of gender that placed women at the head of any profession and able to hold Clan leadership equally with men.  Though reflective of highly localized needs and practices, Brehon Law was the guiding force in Ireland for all relationships between individuals, social and moral.  To orally agree to a social contract was binding to one’s personal honor.  Any breach of contract could be seen as a mark not only against an individual but of an entire clan.

Finally, Brehon Law was a tradition formed over hundreds of years by the people to serve the people.  It was memorized and applied by professional arbitrators (both male and female) who studied the law for many years before being examined to become a Brehon (a combination of being a walking oral law library and legal representative). The highest level Brehons were considered to have rank equal to the High King – be that Brehon a man or a woman.

“6th Century Ireland, A Living History of Equality”

From the mists of Ireland’s history emerges an early tradition of law and social conduct based on personal honor, a quality about which little is spoken or commonly culturally transmitted in our time. In the global economy and politic in which we currently find ourselves, a little old-fashioned integrity called “honor” could go a long way.

It certainly couldn’t hurt.

Living on The Edge

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“Pondering Puffin”

My husband, The Rev. Nigel Taber-Hamilton, had a three-month sabbatical this  Summer.  Episcopal priests are encouraged to take sabbaticals every 5 years, even if they have to go kicking and screaming or even if they leave folks behind who are kicking and screaming about it.  Since Nigel has been the Rector of St. Augustine’s in-the-Woods since 2000, this was his second sabbatical.  Though I had just became Rector of Trinity Episcopal in February of this year, I was very grateful to have been able to use my two weeks of continuing education, plus two weeks of vacation in order to join him for some research and relaxation in Great Britain.

We mapped out our journey based on significant remains of mostly 6th century Celtic Christian communities.  Consequently, our trail wandered from north to south Ireland, to Wales, England and then to Scotland. Being good pilgrims, we saw many holy sites and did a great deal of shopping – a fine pilgrim tradition, don’t doubt it.  We also saw many things we hadn’t planned on seeing such as cows larger than most economy cars, the mummified remains of several “bog people,” and the slanted view of an Irish dirt road from the perspective of the Irish dirt-road ditch we drove into.

A place that I hope to remember for the remainder of my life are the two Skellig islands off the Iveragh Peninsula in Country Kerry, Ireland.  Little Skellig is closed to the public, since it is home to the second largest colony of Northern Gannets (seabirds) in the world.  The second island, Skellig Michael, serves as a popular nesting ground for puffins and is also designated as a World Heritage Site for its the remains of 6th century monastic community perched at 160 meters above sea level.

“Climbing the flights of stone steps on Skellig Michael”

The remains of the site include beehive shaped oratories (monastic cells built of stone) and a church. St Michael’s Church is rectangular in form, unlike the oratories, and would originally have had a timber roof. The date of the founding of the monastery  is not known. However, there is an oral tradition that it was founded by St Fionan in the 6th century. It was dedicated to St Michael somewhere between 950 and 1050.  The site was occupied continuously until the later 12th century, when several factors caused the community to move to the mainland.  It is likely that the community was very small, perhaps around 6-8 monks lived on the island where they kept a small kitchen garden and harvested fish and eggs for food.

The park interpreter assigned to the island the day we were there shared that the monks didn’t come to the island so much to get away from civilization, but rather to live on the edge of the known world in order to be closer to what was beyond it, namely – heaven.  Skellig Michael was held to be a “thin place,” a place nearest the realm of the Sacred.

After a  50 minute boat ride and climbing 650 terraced flights of rock-shelf steps, Nigel and I reached the monastic site.

“Oratories on Skellig Michael”

The temptation to slip into a romantic reverie on how wonderful it would have been (would be) to live a simple life on the island was tempered by the awareness that a good gust of wind on a rainy day could quickly end one’s prayer life on this side of the Divide.

Yet, coming to the edge of the world and of life can bring a helpful, even needful, perspective to decision making and prioritizing one’s time, choices and energy.  The puffins play and nest on the sheer sides, you know.  After a good beak-wrestling contest and tumble down the soft ground foliage, they fly away to eventually settle down again.  It’s not scary to them; it’s a familiar home.

“Puffins Beak-Wrestling on Skellig Michael”

What Skellig Michael reminds me of is that the distance between the life we have and the life we may want to have is not a matter of distance traveled or summits climbed but a matter of attitude, not altitude.  How we orient ourselves within a given moment or situation can diffuse danger, focus priorities and redirect us to new heights and perspective.

“Still a Pilgrimage destination, since the 500’s AD”