Jill of Ark

A Perfect Body

2012-02-25T14:35:00.001-05:00

I'd eased myself onto the floor in my office no more than 2 seconds before Quincy jumped down from where he'd been napping on the day bed to demand my immediate attention.

"Not now, buddy!" I scolded. "I need to do my crunches." In an effort to regain control of my physical wellness, I'd started both the 100 Push-Ups and 200 Sit-Ups Challenges this week.

"Fine," he sighed, hesitantly stepping away. "But what exactly do you need to do them for?"

"I need...to get...in better...shape," I said on the out-breaths of my first set.

"What's wrong with your current shape?" I knew where this was going.

"Nothing is wrong with my current shape. I'd just prefer to have a better one."

"And what you're doing over there--that's going to get you a better shape?"

I nodded.

"Well I think your shape is perfect. And my shape is perfect, too, and I don't need to do anything like that."

"Good for you!" I told him. "But for us humans, having a 'perfect' body isn't quite so easy."

"Sure it is! You just say, 'I have a perfect body,' and then go on to doing something fun. Like sleeping."

"Quincy, if all I did was sleep I'd never have a perfect body." I was starting to get annoyed. "People need to exercise and eat a well-balanced diet and..."

"You'll never have a perfect body as long as you keep telling yourself you don't have one right now."

I knew the power of affirmations. I knew that by virtue of the Law of Attraction, our thoughts became things. But physical fitness was different. You couldn't think your way to toned muscles and firmer abs. You had to work--physically--to achieve those things.

"But I'm not in shape like I used to be. And I need to lose a few pounds. I've got to do something."

"I don't sleep all day," he continued. "I walk around. I chase things. I jump up and down. I explore. I share things with Holly. I box with the dogs. I eat. I drink. I use the litter box. I stalk you in the bathroom. I let you scratch my head. I try to teach you stuff..."

"Right. A lot of physical things," I pointed out to him.

"But I do them. I don't need to do them. There's a difference."

"But don't you need to eat, drink, and move around to survive and be healthy?"

"Exactly. I do these things because my instinct is to survive and be healthy. Not to get a perfect body. I already have a perfect body. The things I do just help me sustain it."

"Yes, but that's why I said I wanted to get in better shape. It will be easier to sustain that without having to worry about it so much."

"If you're doing things like what you were just doing, thinking you need to do them to get a 'perfect' body--or even a 'better' body--you're just going to have to keep on doing them. That 'perfect' body will always be out of reach if you believe it's outside of your existing self, no matter how many exercises you do or don't do."

"Okay. So you're saying I shouldn't do crunches."

"Hey, you should do all the crunches you want if you love to do crunches. But I can't see how anyone could love doing something called 'crunches'--unless it involves food."

Working With the "Dog Brains"

2012-02-07T16:56:00.000-05:00

"If you can communicate with animals, why don't you just tell dogs how you want them to behave?" I can't tell you how many times I've heard this question. My typical response is to prod, tongue-in-cheek, "Well how many humans can you get to do exactly what you want just by telling them to do so?"

Obviously, communication isn't everything.

I often explain to my training clients that, just like us people, dogs have a physical self and a higher self. I call this the "dog brain" and the "dog-spirit brain." The "dog-spirit brain" is that wonderfully wise, profound part of your canine friend that I reach in my intuitive sessions--the part that loves you unconditionally; entertains you with witty, unfiltered commentary; and ultimately pushes you to instill positive changes in your life. This part can easily be reached (and usually reasoned with) through telepathy.

The "dog brain," however, is the primitively driven component you need to figure out how to get through in order to access your dog's spiritual guidance. This is the part that leads your dog to steal food off the table, dig up your rose bushes, destroy your favorite slippers, and run wild figure-eights between your legs at the most inopportune times. (This is also the part that makes dogs dogs. We adore them for it as much as it drives us crazy.)

Having a successful relationship with your dog requires acknowledgment and careful integration of both elements. At its basic levels of operation, obedience training taps directly into the "dog brain." We're working with your dog's instincts, using practical, widely known behavioral techniques to develop a system of signals, consequences, and boundaries to help you and your dog better understand each other. If you're doing this and accepting your own responsibility in the training process--allowing your dog to teach you as much as you're teaching her--you'll be well on your way to achieving blissful and balanced person-to-pup interactions.

But if you're focusing only on training the "dog brain," you risk missing out on the wealth of her "dog-spirit brain." Your particular dog has walked (or perhaps plowed with muddy paws) into your life for a reason. She has something significant to show you about yourself and your approach to life. If you fail to connect with your personal lessons in a behavioral challenge you're facing with your dog, it will likely continue to repeat until you finally do--no matter how much effort you put into correcting it.

And if you're focusing only on working with the "dog-spirit brain," good luck.

On The Grid

2012-02-02T21:49:00.000-05:00

Connecting with animals on the other side was something that, for quite some time, I considered out of my reach. The ability belonged only to my teachers, who seemed so much more practiced and so higher above me in their psychic development. "I couldn't do it if I tried," I'd immediately convince myself whenever the notion struck me, and so I never did.

But when George crossed over last March, I could not bear the thought of never seeing or hearing from him again. In that state of despair, the negative affirmation I'd perpetually clung to finally shifted to an exploratory question: What if I could?

Even the possibility of getting an inkling of a message from George was worth trying for. I flipped through my personal psychic development resource library until I found a method that resonated with me. Before those doubts could seep back in, I sat down--Amelia's Kinkade's book in hand--and allowed myself to explore the outer limits of my intuition.

With my eyes closed, I drew my attention up through my body and ascended into the 4th, 5th, and then 6th dimension. I didn’t know if it was really happening or if it was only my optimism fueling my visions, but I’d never seen anything like them.

Then, there he was, as plain as day, in a big open meadow full of flowers with bright stars illuminating the sky behind him.

"I’m glad you found me!" he beamed with recognition. "I knew you could do it."

"Are…are you okay?" I asked him, emotions swelling deep within. I felt so guilty about his passing.

"Of course! It’s soooo much fun here. We get to play all the time, but no one ever gets hurt. Here, watch this!" He replayed for me a scene where he was rampantly pounced upon by several large, intensely motivated dogs. Before I could gasp, he suddenly reappeared with a big poof of light and giggled.

"We’re all just energy," he explained. "There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore."

"I guess that does seem like fun."

"It is! And the best part is that I can see anybody I want any time. I have lots of new friends, but I’ve also played with Molly and Amber and some of my brothers and sisters and other relatives. I even visited with your grandmother and your grandfather already!"

"But…how? You never knew anyone but Molly."

"It’s easy. You see, there’s a big grid that runs between every living thing, even on the earth. Since I know where your grid line is, I can use it to find and meet everyone ever connected to you. And I can use my own to find anyone ever connected to me."

"So it’s a lateral grid in your dimension?" The concept intrigued me.

"It goes across and up and down," he corrected. "That’s how I can still come down sometimes and you can come up sometimes, though it’s a lot easier to move side to side on the same level."

"Will it get easier to move up and down?"

"Sure! It just takes practice and a lot of energy."

"Will you practice so you can come back to see me often?" I asked with excitement, envisioning my bestest little bunny buddy tagging along with me on adventures his physical form never got to experience.

"I’ll still see you, but it’s important for us to be where we are," he said gently. "It would drain me to come down all the time, and if you spend all your time up here, you’ll lose your connection to your own dimension."

"But I miss you so much!" I could no longer hold back my tears.

"You’re never away from me, Mom. Remember that we’ll always be connected on the grid."

“It just isn’t the same,” I protested.

“No,” he said. “It’s actually better. You’ll see how someday.”

Collecting myself, I breathed in deeply, preparing for the journey back into my body.

“Okay, Georgie. I trust you.” He has always been worthy of it.

"Smile" Said the Fox

2012-01-09T23:12:00.001-05:00

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

2012-01-03T18:21:00.000-05:00

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?

2011-11-30T16:38:00.023-05:00

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

2011-11-07T05:48:00.004-05:00

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)

2011-11-06T07:24:00.005-05:00

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

2011-11-04T17:38:00.018-04:00

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

2011-10-13T15:12:00.020-04:00

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. :)

Goodbye, Miss Hannah Rabbit

2011-10-07T11:25:00.007-04:00

My dear friend, Hannah,

I knew your departure was looming thanks to the warning you gave me a few nights before you crossed over last Saturday, but I'd hoped you'd be wrong. We've grown so much closer over the past few months. I wasn't ready to let you go.

Photo by Wendy Colucci -
www.clickshootingstars.com

But of course you weren't wrong. You're Hannah. That's why I'm sure your final message to me from the physical plane is also one that needs to be taken seriously.

"No matter what happens, always remember to just be," you said, stretching your wiggly little nose up to touch my lip. "You want to be happy? Don't try to be happy."

"I'm not sure I understand," I confessed. "Of course I want to try to be happy."

"But happiness is your true way of being. Anything else is just resistance. If you stop fighting, you'll just settle in where you're supposed to be. If you have to try, then you're not where you're supposed to be yet."

That is what you've been teaching me all along, isn't it? The boundaries you upheld around others weren't for protecting yourself from others' impositions, until you were one day ready to tear them down like I'd assumed had been the case. Your boundaries were aimed at honoring your needs and desires at any given moment. And needs and desires are meant to be fluid, not static.

You never fell into the habit of acting as you should have and feeling guilty whenever you didn't, the way that I so often do. You were just you--sometimes you wanted company and other times you wanted to be left the heck alone. Sometimes you were calm and content, and other times you were irritated, and other times you were downright bitchy.

But I now see how your happiness was always a constant. Whatever negativity I associated with some of your behaviors and moods were merely my own ascriptions. You never judged yourself for not playing nice with others who clearly weren't respecting you. You weren't consumed at all by what anyone thought about you, whether you were sweet and lovey dovey or begrudgingly perturbed.

No wonder you didn't have to try to be happy. You didn't have to spend hundreds of dollars on self-help books and personal development seminars and convince yourself you were doomed to a life of misery whenever fear or anger crept in. You didn't have to do anything. And you certainly didn't have to stay in this plane when you longed to be with your best friend who'd already made the journey beyond.

Photo by Wendy Colucci - www.clickshootingstars.com

Although I'd thought George was my designated "love" teacher, your guidance was equally important. You showed me how to stop trying to force and control every relational aspect I could and to instead just let go and live in my heart. You reassured me that doing so didn't mean I was too soft or incapable of taking care of myself.

I suppose that because I've taken steps toward embracing these lessons (and the rainbow of emotions that comes with them), I no longer need you here to help me. But that isn't to say I won't miss that saucy personality of yours that never withheld an opinion to my aid.

Thanks for everything, my favorite Chocolate Bunny. Even the tooth-lashings.

I'll see you and Georgie in that wide, open, grassy meadow on the other side.

Love always,

Jill

Photo by Wendy Colucci -
www.clickshootingstars.com

The Centipede

2011-08-09T07:31:00.005-04:00

I first spotted him scampering up a wall in a client's garage. Sizing up his long, worm-like body and all those wiry legs, I affirmed my years-old belief--centipedes are among the most repulsive of creatures.

The second time I saw him, he was behind the bathroom door. Inside. Where he didn't belong. Where I didn't want him. "Ugh," I said to myself. "He'd better get out of here."

I'd forgotten about him when my alarm sounded the next morning and I stumblingly made my way into the shower. But I was shocked into full recollection (and wide-awakeness) the instant I reached for my shampoo bottle.

The water was already running, and I sure as heck wasn't going to touch him to get him out. I decided I'd continue my shower in record timing, hoping to be well out of the way before he had the inclination to budge. But he budged. He tried to make a run for it and was swept by the tide pooling in the bottom of the tub.

"I guess that's what you get for hiding in here," I thought, apathetically watching him struggle for his life. Had he been a ladybug or a butterfly or even a spider I would have done everything in my power to escort him to safety, but his unfortunate legginess impeded my compassion.

And then it hit me. Was I really going to stand there and watch an innocent creature suffer because I didn't approve of the way he looked or understand his contribution to the planet? Was I that heartless? I reached for the soap dish and tried to scoop him into it, but his almost completely flattened figure made the task impossible.

I turned the water off and gently picked him up with a tissue, laying him on the lid of the toilet seat. The sight of his limp body filled me with sadness. I opened my channels to allow Reiki to flow through me and cupped my hands over him, holding my position for several minutes but to no avail.

"I'm sorry," I confessed, giving up my rescue effort. "I should have acted sooner."

My morning routine, which brought me in and out of the bathroom several times, proceeded somberly. I figured I'd bring him outside for burial once I was ready to leave for the day. I owed him more than a quick, thoughtless flushing.

When I finally went to retrieve him, I noticed that he seemed a lot more erect--but he remained listless through my gentle shaking of the tissue. I picked it up to take a closer look at this "bug" that had thoroughly disgusted me only an hour before. His little black eyes. His long, brown, intricately patterned body. Even that delicate cascade of legs. He seemed cute. And before my brain registered what my hand was doing, I found myself stroking my finger from his head down along his body.

Wouldn't you know it? He perked right up as if he'd been awoken from a nap. Although I'm pretty sure that centipedes don't actually smile, I swear I saw a friendly, happy little grin on his face.

He'd succeeded in delivering the message he'd been sent to.

The Running Coach

2011-06-29T19:42:00.010-04:00

Recently, I've been afflicted with a delusion that I'd enjoy running if only I could become better at it. And after Monday's attempt of a full-mile jog surprisingly proved to be a walk in the park (not literally--I did actually run it), I'd expected today's effort to follow the same ritual, thereby rendering it magically enjoyable for all eternity.

It didn't. Not even three-tenths of a mile in, I was out of breath, in pain, and wholly discouraged.

"Puff, I think we're going to have to walk it this time," I reluctantly said to my four-legged trail buddy who blazed enthusiastically ahead of me. "I'm just...too...weak...and sore." She pretended not to hear me. I pretended I never told her in the first place and committed to making it to the half-mile marker before I resigned to my evident lack of runability. I could do that much.

When we finally reached it, I celebrated briefly and began to slow to a steady walk, formulating an explanation for Puff as to why I was breaking momentum: It would be best if I'd listen to my body. I don't want to overdo it. This is as far as I could possibly go today.

"It's 'cause you're not running like a dog," she suddenly informed me.

"Umm...well maybe that's because I'm not a dog." How dare she threaten my carefully woven excuse from further exertion.

"You have to run with your senses, not your mind or your muscles. That's how we do it."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Muscles are rather vital to just about any physical process, are they not?

"When dogs run, we don't think about how much we need to run or how far we have to go or how fast we have to get there. We just take off and smell and taste the fresh air and feel the wind through our fur and notice the scenery rushing past."

Since I hadn't completely keeled over, I decided to try it Puff's way for a few strides. I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and allowed the breeze to gently caress the wisps of my loosening ponytail. And then I felt the knot in my right oblique tightening, my knees weakening.

"No, no. Really feel this. Hang your tongue out. Taste that air coming at you." Puff was not about to let me give up.

"What about the bugs?!"

"They're the best part!"

"But...oh...." The last thing on my list of ways to exalt my running experience was swallowing swarms of waterside insects, just below getting stung by a bee and breaking my left ankle.

"Just try it! You'll see."

And so, had you happened to be wandering the Erie Canal this morning, you may have spotted me jogging steadily with a little white dog at my side, my mouth open and my tongue flapping freely over my lower lip. Except you weren't there, and you didn't see me. I made damn sure no one would witness this humiliatingly zany escapade.

But I did it. I took Puff's advice, and I ran almost effortlessly. I made it all the way to the end of the mile and probably could have continued a bit beyond it.

"There, that's enough," she said, reducing speed to a brisk walk as we passed the shelter.

"But it was going so easy for me and I thought I'd go even longer than I set out to," I protested.

"The last important part of running like a dog....we stop!"

"Okay, okay," I conceded. After all, she seemed to know what she was talking about.

*Important note: Puff does NOT encourage you to continue running if you're in pain. She simply suggests that you try shifting your attention to see if it eases the pain before you give up.

More Photo Fun with Wendy Colucci

2011-06-07T11:30:00.001-04:00

Our good friend, Wendy Colucci, grabbed her camera and her family to meet Puff and me for another fun photo shoot at Burnet Park last Sunday. Here are a few of our favorite shots:

Puff performs her killer high-five.

Loungin' on the grass under a lovely tree.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Wendy's son, Michael, takes Puff for a run.

Or was it the other way around?

To see the rest of the album, visit our facebook page. If you live in the Central New York area and would like to book your own pet photo shoot with Wendy, go to her website: www.clickshootingstars.com.

Thanks again, Wendy. We ♥ you!

The Sacred Girly

2011-05-28T13:53:00.008-04:00

I can always count on Holly to be present for "moral support" whenever I change my bed sheets. While I still can't help but get annoyed by her method of assistance, this morning I decided to take a deep breath and go with the pouncing, linen-piling flow.

"Hiya, helper kitty." I flopped myself down beside her.

"Hiya," she responded, rolling on her back in that oh-so-feline way.

"You're cuuuute."

She suddenly stopped moving and stood up to face me directly. "So...are...you!"

I flinched a little, as I often do when someone bestows such a repulsive adjective upon me.

"Yep. Just as I thought."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have a problem accepting your cuteness."

"I do not!," I protested. "I am perfectly in touch with my feminine side." I began to point out the Victoria's Secret bag on my floor, all the scarves in my accessory drawer, the skirts in my closet. The longer hair style I'd eased into, allowing my natural waves to take their shape most days. The cheery colors in my newly painted office...

"Then why do you get all squirmy whenever someone calls you "cute" and why do you hate the color pink so much and why do you get all bent out of shape over someone commenting on your height and why do you think you have to be physically strong to prove yourself..."

"Okay, okay. That's enough." Sheesh. It sounded like she could have rattled off poignant examples all day.

"Well it's going to keep holding you back until you accept it. I thought you'd like to know since you're trying so hard to move forward and all."

"Oh?"

"Yes...oh."

"But I thought I've been getting better about that--about welcoming my goddess energy and letting myself be more free and in tune and trying to love myself just as I am."

"I'm not talking about the Sacred Feminine. I'm talking about the Sacred Girly."

"The Sacred...Girly? I don't think I've heard about that one before."

"Of course you haven't. I just made it up."

"So what's the difference?"

"Your Feminine is your connection to Mother Earth and Grandmother Moon and Goddess and whatever else you want to call it. It's about creativity and joy and expression and intuition and sexuality. Your Girly is what makes you feel special enough to allow your Feminine."

"Me and every other woman?"

"Nope...just you and some women. There are others who can allow their Feminine without needing so much Girly. But there are also a lot of women get stuck at the Girly and cannot move on to the Feminine, and I'm preeeetty sure that's why you're so afraid of it. You don't want to get stuck, so you won't go there at all."

"I'm not afraid of that stuff. I just find it annoying. And sometimes even degrading."

"Because you're afraid."

"No, I..."

"Will you please just trust the cute kitty on this?"

"Fine. Oh Cute One, I am afflicted with terror of all things pink and ribboned. Tell me, what must I do to become more allowing of my Sacred Girly?"

"For starters you can stop talking like that about it."

I reluctantly withdrew my smirk. "Alright, seriously. What am I supposed to do?"

"You don't do anything. Just be. That's all." She leaped gracefully toward the door.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...wait a sec. There must be at least a few more chapters in this epic lesson."

"Duh. I just showed you what I meant."

"Huh?"

"Don't worry. You'll figure it out."

She pranced off and I finished making the bed, which was by far the most monumental lining-changing ceremony of my existence. I'm still scratching my head a bit, but am beginning to suspect that what Holly describes as the "Sacred Girly" is not really about liking pink and being whiny and princessy but instead about refraining from judging, resisting, or pressuring oneself to either meet or avoid anyone's expectations, even one's own.

How did I come to this? As I struggled to craft a witty and memorable wrap-up to this post, it occurred to me to follow Holly's lead and simply write...

There. I shared a potentially illuminating story with you all, and now it's up to you to figure out what it means and how (and even IF) it might help you. The end. :)

The Flood

2011-05-18T18:27:00.006-04:00

When I adopted the name "Jill of Ark," I suppose it was only a matter of time before I also drew to me other elements of Noah's epic tale (besides the pairs of animals). Still, it was quite a shock when my housemate brother called on a random Tuesday afternoon in April to report that our house was, randomly, under water.

An abruptly violent storm that swept through the area was allegedly too much for the drainage system at the top of the hill to accommodate, and alas, every rejected droplet made its wet, merry way down said hill to stage an impromptu poolside party around our and our neighbor's houses. We must have missed that e-vite because we were not prepared for this:

And certainly not this:

I'm not sure anyone could have been prepared for a fluke flash flood. And to be sure, I asked Holly and Quincy, who were more than a little perturbed about having to be confined to my bedroom for more than a week while about 70% of the house was being cleaned and retiled or recarpeted.

"Hey! Don't look at us. If we could have taught you how to stop this, we would have acted!" (They cut me off before I could even get my complete question out. But since I was relieved to know it wasn't the residual effect of some compounding life lessons I'd been too obtuse to notice in recent weeks, I didn't mind.)

A semi-disaster was the last thing I needed when I was already on the verge of a complete mental breakdown from an insanely hectic teaching load and the chronic stress-related health issues that had been harassing me for extra credit all semester. Thankfully, my little brother really stepped up to the plate since my time and physical abilities were so limited. Not only did he make sure my animal pals were safe (since I wasn't home at the time this happened), he made all the calls, ripped up all the carpets, learned to lay ceramic tile, patched and painted, researched vendors and arranged for the new carpets to come in, moved furniture several times, and pumped the water out of the backyard. He was Super Home-Repair Man. I was also touched by how many of my friends unplugged their own dehumifiers from their basements to lend them to our swamp cleanup project for a few days. I suppose that, sometimes, we need something awful to happen to us so that we can be reminded how much we have to be grateful for.

Water cleanses. Perhaps we've been washed out to make room for new excitement and joy to come in. After all, a lot of physical clutter that needed to be purged was finally forced to be purged. Plus the new carpets make the house look bigger and brighter, and the off-white tile floor is a huge upgrade from the outdated brick-colored laminate that used to greet you at the door.

Of course, it could have been worse. We were fortunate to lose only some old rugs and a few miscellaneous items, unlike the family next door who lost virtually everything inside their house. We still have a place to live, unlike so many affected by the more catastrophic floods that have wreaked havoc around the globe over the past few weeks. My heart goes out to them.

And it could have been WAY worse had I somehow summoned the story of the other piece of my namesake. That's reason enough to celebrate, isn't it? :)

Supposed to Be

2011-03-31T09:51:00.010-04:00

Things change. People change. Life goes on. I know this. But this past week, a few more changes than I'd been prepared to face were thrown at me.

My little bunny buddy, George, crossed over. I didn't know he was sick. I didn't see it coming. And then, even more surprisingly, my newly budded relationship that seemed so healthy and so promising came to a screeching hault (more like a screaming hault).
I'd like to say I'm looking toward the sun and am fully aware of how everything happened for a reason that in time will be revealed. But I can't. I'm hurting. SO much. And it's been all I can do to avoid breaking down and sobbing every waking (and sleeping) minute, now that the shock and anger have worn off.

"Why did this happen?" I'd posed the question to Quincy, but it was Holly who responded.

"Because it was supposed to."

"I'm trying to believe that. I just wish I had a better idea of why it was supposed to."

Holly began to chatter through the window at two exceptionally plump robins she spied on my front lawn. "I love everyone and everything. But when I see birds, I want to pounce on them and eat them. It's just the way of nature."

"I don't understand how you drooling over a bird connects to my grieving," I said dryly, thinking she was too distracted to provide appropriate counsel.

"I'm supposed to be driven to attack birds, even though I love them. Just like you are supposed to be driven to know your truth, even though you want to love other truths." Her eyes were still fixated on the robins.

"Still not following."

"If it isn't your truth--your nature--it won't work out. It can't. No matter how much energy and effort you focus on it. No matter how much pain you feel when you fail."

"So you're saying that when I am in my true relationship, it will work out?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. It will be easy. You'll be going with nature, just like I am right now with this delicious-looking birdie."

"How can I find it?

"It will find you if you just stay in line with your truth. See? I didn't have to look for these robins. They came right to me!"

Photo by Wendy Colucci: www.clickshootingstars.com

"But what about George?"

"Your true nature is limitless. When you realize this--that none of us are trapped in physical form--you'll also realize you haven't lost him. Not even a little bit. And this, too, will be easy."

Hearing Holly's wisdom didn't exactly dilute my pain, but it did provide a ray of hope that was tremendously comforting. "Wow, Hol. Thanks. That's pretty profound for a Thursday morning."

"I'm always inspired when I'm riled up over robins."

Who knows? Maybe when I'm riled up over my own "robins," I am, too.

Take Time to Smell the Dog Pee

2011-03-27T14:17:00.009-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, when the Syracuse climate decided to tease us with a few false signals of spring, I took Miss Puff out for a long walk--our first long walk in several months. I felt a desperate urging to burn some calories.

However, since I made the mistake of forgoing the Gentle Leader, I quickly found I was burning less calories from movement and more calories out of sheer frustration as I stopped and took a few "penalty" steps backward every time Puff pulled forward. Every. Other. Second. Leash training is unfortunately not very conducive to walking for exercise. Especially leash training a dog like Puff.

"You're slowing us down a lot when you do that," I scolded as she yanked toward the left once again. I was trying not to get frustrated since the worst thing a trainer can do is get frustrated. But it was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Well you're speeding us up a lot," she retorted, without losing focus on whatever she'd targeted in the grass along the side of the road.

"Yes. That's kind of the idea of walking."

"But it isn't the idea of smelling. You can't take in all the wonderful smells of outside when you're walking too quickly."

"Okay, but I really need to get some exercise. And you need to learn how to walk better on a leash."

"No, you need to get some excitement. At least seven dogs have peed here. Do you know exciting that is?!"

"Umm....noooooo.....I don't really...."

"Well here--let me show you!" She so proudly prepared to transmit the smell to my nose by proxy.

"No, no, NO!" I shrieked, drawing my hand up to cover my nose. Goodness, let's NOT smell the seven-dog pee spot. Her sulking glance made me realize I may have hurt her feelings, so I tried to tune down my disgust. "I mean...I'll just take your word for it. I'm sure it smells super awesome to you."

"Humans. You have no idea what you're missing."

"We do like other outside smells. Like flowers. And pine trees. And fresh air."

"So why aren't you smelling those things now?"

"I am smelling them. I just don't get right down to the ground like you do. Plus, like I said before, I need to keep moving so I get the exercise I need."

"But you're not exercising your senses. That's important, too. And you need to stop moving to exercise them the right way."

I began to consider the possibility that I was the one who needed training. My entire life had turned into a constant juggling of obligations that seemed to take precedence over everything else. And the things that brought me the kind of joy Puff experiences when she finds the jackpot of outdoor doggy toilets--those weren't even in the mix anymore. My friends, my creative endeavors. I felt like even my quality time with my animals had suffered recently. And for what?

Although I couldn't answer the question, I was surprised to notice just how much more smoothly our walk proceeded after this exchange. Puff no longer needed to drag me in all directions since she'd finally reminded me they existed.

So, friends, no matter where we are or how busy we claim to be, it might behoove us all to heed Puff's advice on this one: Take time to smell the dog pee.

That Kind of Control

2011-03-25T07:08:00.002-04:00

Late last night, as I sat in front of the rabbit hutch, trying hopelessly to avoid another breakdown, something completely out of the ordinary happened. Hannah, now the sole occupant of the lower bunk, hopped out and into my lap for the first time since she's been with me. She stretched herself up to rub her nose against my cheek.

It's okay to be sad. I miss him being here, too.

It was enough to shatter what little was left of that tattered dam. I burst into tears. And tumbling along that gushing stream came a hundred toxic what-ifs. What if it had something to do with the new food I started feeding them (it was organic--I thought it would be better)? What if I didn't keep the temperature in the house warm enough? What if having dogs in the house made him too nervous? What if I accidentally poisoned him with something I cleaned with?

Will you stop that?, Hannah interrupted. YOU didn't cause this.

"I'm just so worried it was something I did or didn't do that made Georgie sick."

You don't have THAT kind of control, you know.

"But..."

He had his own path. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

"But..."

We're born. We live. We die. And we go on. That's just how it is. That's how it's meant to be. Nothing you do can ever change it.

"But..."

And you think I'M the controlling one?

It was impossible not to laugh at that. Oh, Hannah and her perfectly timed bluntness.

That's better, she said, licking the salt from my tears off my hand.

"It's just so hard when you leave. Especially the cute ones like you and George."

Well you should see him now! He's quite a sprightly bunny, if I do say so.

"Actually, I did see him earlier. At least I think so. I've never tried reaching an animal on the other side before today so I'm not sure if..."

You did! He told me. He says you saw how happy he was and he told you not to cry for him and now you've already forgotten.

"He did say that."

So why were you crying?

"Hey! You just said it was okay to be sad."

This is not about you being sad. This is about you not trusting what you CAN control.

"But I thought I can't control..."

You can control your thoughts.

"But my thoughts won't bring George back."

No, but they will bring you back to George, silly. That is, IF you choose to believe in your ability to go there and stop questioning and doubting yourself at every turn.

I did start to feel a sense of relief at that. "Thanks, Hannah."

See? And then you won't need to be so sad!

Finished with her impromptu counseling session, Hannah bounced her way back to the hutch. She too wanted control of what little she could have control over.

That's all I have for you right now. Goodnight.

Goodbye, Georgie Bunny

2011-03-24T14:03:00.006-04:00

My sweet George,

Deep down, I always knew the day would come when I'd no longer be able to stroke your velvety coat or tickle you between your ears. I just wasn't expecting it to come so soon. As much as I respected the mystery of life and the beautiful freedom of our paths within it, I'd always hoped that yours would be an exception. This was selfish of me, perhaps, but if you knew how rare souls like yours were to come by in this world, you'd understand why I'd want you with me forever.

Of course, you'd never understand this because doing so is out of line with the very reason I'm asking you to try. You saw the best in everyone--even me, when I became so overwhelmed with stress that I hardly paid you any attention. You never judged me or complained. You refused every apology I offered, insisting it was unnecessary because you loved me and were perfectly happy as you were.

Not even five years ago, before I believed animal communication was possible, you somehow managed to get through. There in that tiny cage in the poultry barn at the State Fair, over loud noises and a bustling crowd, you connected with me in ways I've never experienced when you so bravely hopped right to the door and pressed your little twitching nose up toward mine. You needed my help, and I heard your plea and rescued you from imminent slaughter. But, looking back, I think it was really you who saved me.

You showed me how simple is better and encouraged me to avoid getting caught up in petty materialism. You showed me that no matter how limited I felt, I always had the power to alter my circumstances with nothing more than my own hands (or teeth). You taught me to let go of my grudges as I watched you persist for Hannah's affection (even after she mauled and bit you) and boldly overcome your fear of dogs. You convinced me to push past my own fears of giving in to my softer side and to open my heart to love despite resistance from every other cell of my body.

Photo by Wendy Colucci:
www.click shooting stars.com

Oh, Georgeous Bunny--thank you for choosing me as your human project. Thank you for the time you've given me with your cutest physical presence. And thank you for allowing me to say goodbye to that physical form this morning before you made your journey to the next dimension.

I'm sure I'll still be seeing you now that you are poised to guide me even more magically from your grass-covered meadow on the other side, but I'm going to miss catching you in big your toothy yawns and rubbing that fuzzy gray belly.

Yours, eternally and gratefully,
Jill

PS - I'll make sure your beloved Hannah gets plenty of cuddling time. Please help her let me.

Photo by Wendy Colucci: www.clickshootingstars.com

Dog Country: Our First Giveaway

2011-03-19T21:59:00.010-04:00

It's a well-known truth that country music carves a welcome container for some of the most heart-warming and heart-wrenching lyrics ever written. So when Steve Christopher of Cloud 10 Music in Nashville, Tennessee, approached me to check out his recent project--a compilation of country songs that celebrate dogs--I knew I was in for more than your average Milkbone.

Dog Country came to life when Steve's song, "Half the Man," which reflects a dog's unconditional love for his human master, wowed his live audience at the world-famous Bluebird Café. His open call for songwriters across Nashville to dust off their best dog songs was not only answered--the resulting canine tribute boasts the work of some of Nashville's most renowned writers.

Although Steve was overwhelmed by the response, he was not at all surprised by how many writers had a dog song (or several) in their repertoires. "Dogs and country music go together as easily as peanut butter and chocolate," says Steve. "Our relationships with our dogs strike at the heart of country music's core values--down-home simplicity, family bonds, and good old-fashioned story telling."

Besides adorable cover art, you can expect to find on Dog Country themes that resonate with anyone who understands why dogs have for so long been referred to as man's best friend--helping us through heartbreak ("Bebe's Riding Shotgun"), protecting us from harm ("Sarge"), and being faithfully at our sides until the day they depart for Doggy Heaven ("For Pete's Sake"). The tongue-in-cheek pleas from humans who yearn to be revered like their four-legged counterparts ("Lucky Dog" and "Treat Me Like the Dog") are catchy and fun in that oh-so-true way as well. But the song that charms me the most is "Dog Gone," a convincing love ballad from an old hound who knows he'll never chase cats the same way now that his beloved Pekingese next door has moved away. Oh, you can just feel the poor boy's pain!

Of course, it wouldn't be Dog COUNTRY if it didn't offer that same deeply touching lyrical quality you've come to appreciate from the genre--the kind that plucks at your heart strings and tear ducts. As Steve sums up, "Dog Country is about love and loss, heartbreak and companionship, honor and humor, loyalty and laughs. In short, everything we hold near and dear to us as Americans. It reminds us of home. And who better to greet us at the door?" This is the very reason the album had to be made, he explains. "It picked me like my old chocolate lab, Vassey, who I miss like home."

But if you're an emotional sap like me, don't dare try listening to them while you're driving. :)

Want to win a FREE copy of the Dog Country CD?

1.) Go to www.dogcountrysongs.com and listen to a few of the track samples by scrolling over the hound or clicking on the "listen" tab.

2.) Come back to this post and leave a comment with the following information:

The title of your favorite track
A brief note explaining what you like about it
Your geographic location

3.) Gain a bonus entry by becoming a follower of www.jillofark.com. (Click the "follow" button on the left rail of the site.)

That's it! We'll be drawing a winner on Saturday, April 30, 2011.

And if you can't wait another minute to get your paws on these super-sweet, dog-loving songs, you can purchase a CD or download tracks for iTunes from the website. A portion of the proceeds benefits Happy Tales Humane in Franklin, Tennessee. Even sweeter.

FTC Disclosure: Jill of Ark received one Dog Country CD for personal review plus additional copies--at her request--for promotional purposes such as this giveaway. She is happy to spread the word about such a wonderful project and hopes you will be, too!

Letting Go

2011-03-18T21:43:00.019-04:00

There is one more important little detail that as of yet has been left out of the account of what I've been up to during my extended hiatus from the blogosphere.

I fell in love.

I'd like to tell you that it happened in some grandiose gesture that would make even the most avid of Harlequin readers pine with envy. However, if you knew anything about me prior to that point, you'd know right away that--like most Harlequin novels--I was full of s**t. (No offense, romance enthusiasts.)

You see, since the dissolving of my last major relationship in the fall of 2009, I'd sunken into a personality profile that the generous types might refer to as a "shrew." (I'll leave what the rest of you might have referred to me as up to your imagination.) While I'd been emotionally bled dry from that ordeal, my pattern-driven self decided to stumble blindly into the three-ring circus that is the dating world anyway because I didn't know anything of the "me" who wasn't attached to some male specimen, and I wasn't keen on the idea of finding out. But when you're a hollow shell just going through familiar motions, it's quite difficult to establish a meaningful bond with another well-intentioned human being, let alone a man. And, as I discovered several times over as I maintained the longest streak of singlehood in my adult life--despite many desperate efforts to break it--your heart is never immune from the numbness that permeates the rest of your body. Each rejecting blow sent me tumbling further behind the barriers I continued to build as I swore off dating, men, love, sex, companionship, and all other related constructs and became icily skeptical toward anything that resembled them.

Hannah understood. I saw so much of myself in that feisty little rabbit. She was capable of being sweet, but also capable of ripping the skin off your knuckles if you stepped out of line. Since she came to live with us, George had longed so badly to cuddle with her and be her friend--and she'd have NO part of it. She insisted on having her own space and usually on being let out completely by herself so she could bounce around unbothered. If George managed to get anywhere near her, she didn't just ignore him. She bulldozed him, bit clumps of fur off his little bunny rump, and sent him hopping shamefully back to his hutch--and then ignored him. I admired this.

And, yes--there really is a love story buried within this hot, miserable mess of my (and Hannah's) existence.
Andy and I had our first date back in August. By this point, I was so sure he was just going to disappear that I preemptively told my friends I didn't like him and it was never going to work out between us to spare myself further humiliation and heartbreak. I successfully blew him off for a good month and a half afterward, convinced it was the other way around. Somehow we reconnected--somehow, he was actually still interested in me--and the next thing I knew, I was spending many a weekend an hour away from home at his place, watching movies and engrossed in conversation, feeling safe, respected, and completely at ease. He was attractive and intelligent and didn't seem threatened by my grammar snobbery or resume of food sensitivities. He told me I was beautiful and acted like he meant it. Plus he was a writer, like me. He'd just quit his day job, like me. He cared about human rights issues, like me. He even had the same birthday as me. But I was lonely. He was just someone to hang out with. We weren't that compatible. I wasn't that into him.

And then, one day, Hannah hopped into George's hutch after I'd had them out for bunny playtime (not *that* kind of playtime--George is neutered).

"Hannah, I have to leave soon. Why don't I put you back in your hutch?"

I'm good, she said.

"Okaaaaaay...." I half-expected to come home later to find poor George mauled to shreds. But when I returned, George was fully intact. He and Hannah were leaning against one another.

"Hannah? Are you....feeling alright?" I asked quizzically.

I feel fine.

"But why are you....? George....? Together....? Calmly....?"

I decided it was time to let it all go.

She and George have been cohabiting--peacefully--ever since.

I don't remember when I first realized how Hannah was once again mirroring me, but I eventually came to that epiphany. She was right. I'd held on to fear and anger long enough. It was time to let it all go. I was ready to let it all go.
So, I wasn't swept off my feet in throes of passion like your typical heroine--like some poor disillusioned part of my psyche had been socially conditioned to wait for in every relational possibility. I walked in willingly and deliberately. I just didn't know it.

And for the perpetually guarded and jaded control freak that I once was, it was epically romantic.

Rationalizing Compassionate Training (Guest Contribution for Maxwell and Me!)

2011-03-17T10:48:00.006-04:00

From the day this site was first created, my goal was to help people better understand and connect with the animals around them. Imagine how thrilled I was when Denise "Dee" Blackman over at Maxwell and Me! invited me to be a contributing writer so that I could further my mission.

Based in sunny Florida, Dee is a long-time animal enthusiast, advocate, and trainer. Her site, named after her Black Labrador, is dedicated to providing a variety of helpful perspectives on all things related to Man's (and WOman's) Best Friend. Dee also runs Maxwell and Me!'s sister site, All My Pets and Me!, which offers a similar resource for all other companion animals.

This is my first in a series of pieces for Maxwell and Me!

Because You Love Him: A Rationale for Compassionate Training

You know the story. You’re swooned by those big brown eyes and happily wagging tail, and commit wholeheartedly to providing that dog the forever home he deserves. And then he shreds your good shoes, pounces on your guests, and nearly pulls your arm out of its socket on his walks, turning your puppy love song into the “No-No! Bad Dog!” symphony.

As a dog parent, I sympathize with the desire for the quickest fix in restoring harmony at home. But as an animal consultant and advocate, I stand firmly behind my belief that our relationships with our dogs, like with other people, are worth the time and effort it takes to build them. ...

Click here to read the full article.

The Other Side

2011-03-15T20:14:00.007-04:00

Early last summer, as I was contemplating leaving my full-time day job in marketing and PR, I often visited my favorite canal path for a walk or jog. I had many an introspective conversation here about my dreams and the fears that kept me from reaching for them, and this particular day was no exception. I was so lost in thought that I nearly tripped over the long, brown snake who had stretched himself across the path.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!," I screeched, clumsily twisting my legs backward to avoid stepping on scales more nightmarish than the bathroom variety (it was a close call). I may respect all animals, but I still don't enjoy being startled by them. Especially snakes and spiders.

He cautiously shifted his head in my direction, eying me up.

"Oh. Hello there. Sorry for disturbing you. Would you mind moving forward so I can get across and be out of your way?" I knew I'd best be polite.

I heard the words, step over me, in my mind's ear. Step over him? Seriously?

"Umm....Well, you see....I'd rather....not."

Go on. Step over me.

I hesitated. This was a snake I was conversing with, after all.

It's always greener on the other side. Just step forward. You'll see.

Great. The snake sage was forcing me to engage with him for nothing more than uber-cliched advice. I knew that the grass was greener on the other side. I'd heard it said a thousand times over--though I much preferred hearing it from other sources. Couldn't the animal kingdom have sent a little fuzzy bunny to convey this completely non-profound adage to me?

I quickly evaluated my options. 1). Go for a short swim. 2). Risk that the "three" I saw on the ground along the wooded side of the path weren't the kind I was supposed to "let be." 3). Oblige a reptile who was not only giving me permission to walk over him, but requesting that I do so.

Crap.

And so I stepped, slowly and deliberately, watching to be sure this unexpected slithery stranger didn't intend to scare the bejeezus out of me with a quick movement. Or a lunge toward my ankle.

He didn't. He didn't so much as flinch. That actually wasn't so bad.

I turned around to thank him for our encounter and say goodbye, and was stunned to see a glistening yellowish green creature looking back toward me. It was impossible to be fearful of something so cheerfully bright. I moved closer to examine his magnificence.

Told you!, he said, beaming.

I'd been so afraid of pushing past the "vile" in my life that I was unable to envision the beauty that lied on the other side of it--or the vantage point I could obtain from that new position. But once I recognized that beauty, the ugliness of the fence was no longer scary to me.

I guess it did require a snake to get the message through to me after all.

The Ark Gets Shot

2011-03-14T23:59:00.002-04:00

Photographically, that is. Our good friend, Wendy Colucci of Shooting Stars Photography, gleefully lugged her camera and studio lights across town to document the cuteness that abides in my home. With her creative eye, patience, and capable support team (her son and husband), she managed to snap hundreds of amazing images.

And we had soooo much fun in the process. :)

Here is just a sampling of the results. You can view the full albums on our facebook page. And if you "like" our page, you can comment to help us narrow down which ones to put in use. There are way too many to pick from!

Wendy is available for special events, weddings, and of course, pet photos, in the Central New York area. For contact information to schedule a photo session, visit her website at http://www.clickshootingstars.com/.

Thanks again, Wendy! We love you!