When Writing is Impossible…or How to Dress for Oprah

Greg, who does not know how to dress for Oprah

            It’s a New Year. It’s been awhile and I must admit this is my second attempt at writing a blog post since the New Year began. My first one had a similar title but a different ending, as in no ending. The middle was also different but I haven’t written the middle or end of this yet, so how would I know? So let me get down to business and tell you some other lies.

            Writing is hard. If anyone tells you that it’s not, tell them they’re an idiot and then sit down and write a 600 word essay about why you just called them that. And then publish it somewhere and pat yourself on the back, gently, knowing you’ve done some excellent writing that day.

            Damn! The wind is blowing. Now that’s the truth. It’s 8 degrees here in Buffalo and I’m getting ready to leave for California tomorrow morning. It’s the only appropriate thing to do when the weather starts behaving badly. That’s how I’m seeing it, like a naughty child that needs to be abandoned. I’ll come back in ten days when that kid has learned to mind its manners. Mid-January…that will be so much better.

            I know I’m lucky to be able to leave at all and what I’m going to be doing is really cool which is going to see my son, Zach, speak at Claremont Lincoln University in an evening called, “Uncomfortable Conversations,” a January Summit which has to do with Communication about sensitive subjects, like religion, disability, any kind of diversity.

 Zach will be interviewing Rainn Wilson, Rainn will be interviewing Zach, and if you don’t know who Rainn is, think about that goofy guy with the glasses on “The Office,” or Arthur, on “Six Feet Under.” That guy. He also has a show called “Metaphysical Milkshake” on the network he founded called “Soul Pancake” where Zach hosted “Have a Little Faith,” an Interfaith show, so it all makes sense.

The evening requires “cocktail attire” which I don’t think applies to the pajama pants and fuzzy sweater I’m rocking right now. In fact, nothing much in my closet really falls into that category. My work as an adjunct, substitute teacher, and now, hospital worker, does not really allow for me to dress-up much and I hate going shopping but I did buy this one dress a couple years ago. At my favorite couture boutique aka consignment store. I know that grosses some people out but I love wearing second-hand clothes! They have so much more character than stuff you can buy new and this dress is a Liz Claiborne which I could never afford. I didn’t know where I would wear it but I got it just in case an occasion like this arose.

It’s very Stevie Nicks and I’d love to say I put in a huge bid on E-Bay for it and it was an actual dress that she wore during her Fleetwood Mac days, but…I can’t even tell you the price. It’s too cheap (like 6 cents) and Zach would be mortified. I’m counting on Zach not to read my blog because he usually doesn’t but if you know Zach…shh, keep it under wraps, at least until Saturday.

I bought new clothes when I knew, or at least suspected, I’d be meeting Oprah. It was at the end of Zach’s filming of “Your Own Show” when I received a call from a producer saying they were flying me out to California for the finale. I hadn’t spoken to Zach in a few weeks because it was a reality show and part of the deal was to have no contact with family members. After I asked the obvious, is he a finalist, the very next question was, what do I wear? The response was pretty vague and I couldn’t ask anyone for help because I had to keep the fact that I was going a secret, another oddity about attending reality show finales.

So I took a trip to Kohl’s (they were the sponsors of the show) and bought myself a casual knit skirt and close fitting purple blouse. Conservative, not too flashy. Where I went wrong was with the shoes and not because they had ten inch heels and I can barely walk in sneakers, but because they were new and hurt my feet. So when I walk out on stage, it looks a little like I also might be in need of a wheelchair. If you want to see my big moment on T.V., here’s the link: http://www.oprah.com/own-your-own-show/And-The-Winner-of-Your-OWN-Show-IsIf you watched you can see my hair looks great (and it never does) because hair and make-up people actually made me look okay. I doubt they’ll be around this Friday.

But I know this Friday night, just like that day when I met Oprah, I don’t really have to worry about what I’m wearing or how my hair looks because all eyes will be on Zach and Rainn. And because they have good fashion sense, they’ll both look fantastic!

Gone Girl Not the Movie

*Grandpa Hodge (James) and me at Niagara Falls

I’m sitting in Santora’s restaurant by the UB North campus and it’s all TV screens and loudness at 7:30 on a Saturday. Greg and I have landed here after a failed attempt to see “Gone Girl” at the Maple Ridge movie complex. We didn’t get busted for the bags of popcorn we tried to smuggle in under our coats, but instead were told that the only seats available together would be in the front row, which at $12.50 a pop, what would be the point? Do we really have to buy seats online in advance for $3 more to watch a movie in the theatre these days? Of course, this one has swanky reclining seats, but still. No wonder we wait until they come out on DVD or stream them on Netflix.

            So here we are at Santora’s feeling a little grumpy amidst the beer and chicken wings when the room empties out a little and we see this magnificent couple enter and sit down a few tables away from us. They are so stunning that I literally cannot look away, as if Kate and William have just arrived in a motorcade with paparazzi snapping pictures behind them. Here in our midst is a little blonde girl about six wearing a sparkly headband and sparkly sweater to match. Her movements are graceful and light, her presence both grounded and ethereal. She smiles sweetly at her companion, a man in his seventies with tousled grey hair and glasses, who smiles back leaning in to speak to her softly. It’s an intimate encounter that we strangers bear witness to, so much love radiating between this lovely pair. And yet it feels familiar and somewhat personal. Am I really seeing strangers here or visitors from my past and future selves? Is this little blondie a perplexing vision of a gone girl who used to be…me?

I have been lucky enough to know all my grandparents and as I’ve written about before, my maternal grandfather was a big fan of my sister and me, bowing to our every whim. He took us on “dates” like the one I’m witnessing, hung on our every word and delighted in our smallest achievements. My paternal grandfather lived in South Carolina so we didn’t get to see him as much, but when we did it was the same kind of love fest. He would do crazy southern things, like let us sit on his lap and drive his car, and give us gifts of dyed baby chicks at Easter. In my mind he was as tall as Abraham Lincoln and I loved when he carried me around so I could see things from up high like he did.

My grandmothers were equally indulgent in their own ways. Gammy would sit on her porch doing paint by numbers with us then take us out for lunch and order us kiddie cocktails so we could follow in her footsteps as alcoholics. Grandma Hodge would make pajamas and beds for our dolls to match our own. She would spend her last pennies to buy us candy and when we got older, drive around Sumter like a maniac pointing out and honking her horn at all the cute guys she’d picked out for us.

We all love our children unconditionally, but with the added burden of making them into responsible, loving human beings which requires guidance that sometimes feels like judgment. Grandparents don’t have to do that. They are free to love recklessly, indeed spoil us, when all they expect and long for in return is our presence to receive their unbridled affection and adoration. We are their futures and we hold so much hope for them.

When I visited the Spiritualist Community, Lilydale, a few years ago with my friend, Tim, we sat outside where practicing mediums chose people from the group assembled to give them their messages from beyond. I was chosen twice. Both times they were from an older gentleman named James (my paternal grandfather) offering vague assurances and guidance about important life decisions I was dealing with at that time. While not a complete skeptic, I am leery of the idea that my southern grandfather, who died when I was still a child, would be hanging around in New York state waiting for me to show up at Lilydale this first time and make contact. But I was deeply touched by the thought that though over fifty years had passed since we were together on Earth that there was still some connection. That somehow Grandpa Hodge had managed to continue seeing me as I grew into an adult and made himself known so he could offer his advice…twice.

The holidays are hard for a lot people because so many have passed on to whatever or wherever your beliefs make sense of what happens after death. I am uncertain of what this is but what I know right now is that distance, time, and even death don’t separate us from those with whom we are deeply connected. The love continues and we are never gone to each other.

***

*Photo sent by Aunt Peggy. Thank you!

Waiting out the Solstice

         November and December are the darkest months in Buffalo. The leaves are gone, the sky is deep grey and just like everywhere else in the Western Hemisphere, the days keep getting shorter and shorter. If it wasn’t for things like work and needing to eat, I probably wouldn’t bother getting out of bed. But here I am, suffering until the solstice, wondering how on Earth I will get through these next three weeks without sinking into a deep and miserable depression.

         One of the ways I've gotten around this is by scheduling all my preventative care medical appointments which forces me to get out of the house and interact with people who are being paid to show concern for my well-being. There’s so many things on me that are falling apart or need checking; my eyes, my boobs, my thyroid, my teeth, all showing the wear and tear of aging. Now that’s something to get excited about.

         My dental hygienist is so young and adorable and tells me with such sweetness that if I don’t start flossing more regularly my teeth will likely fall out of my head. Then she compliments my smile and apologizes for scaring me. It’s the perfect love/scare, guilt/redemption relationship. When I tell her that she makes my dental experience a little less terrible, she says I should write an online review for the office, but maybe not use the words terrible or torture when I describe my visit. They are very aggressive about soliciting these reviews but who actually finds dentistry the least bit pleasant? I walk out with a new toothbrush, a tiny bottle of mouthwash, equally tiny box of floss and the slightest hope that my next periodontal exam will yield 2’s and 3’s, not 4’s like this last one.

                    I also joined a gym. Yeah, I did that, which only shows exactly how unstable I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve joined gyms before. It didn’t work out or let’s say more accurately, I didn’t work out. I mean, I did for awhile but then I’d have a headache or be too tired and then I’d just stop going, like it never even happened. My commitment was over but of course, I kept paying and paying until finally they let me out of the contract.

           But this time it only cost $10 and the membership lasts until December 31^st  unless they can get me to sign up for longer and then it will cost considerably more. But I’ll have to go to the gym for them to convince me of how worthwhile it is and I have no intention of going. I know I should be getting in shape or losing weight, getting some cardio…whatever. Aren’t we all supposed to be obsessed with that? And I heard exercise helps with depression, if you actually do it. Endorphin release, it’s supposed to be great!

             And everyone loves a bargain. What else can you get for $10 these days? Nothing! Which is exactly what I’ll get unless I get off my moderately fat butt and use the equipment at the gym that I paid for with my $10.
            Maybe I should have bought a sandwich. I enjoy sandwiches but they do make you fat. But at least you have something to show from having eaten them. An actual encounter, unlike the gym that sits a few blocks away and is calling my name. Or not calling my name. Maybe I should just put on headphones.

                 It’s eleven A.M. The slick black branches outside my window sway eerily sending tiny drops to the driveway. The wind shivers splashes into puddles. It’s a monochromatic scene, except for the grass no longer draped in snow. The rain pours down harder tilting slightly to the left. Stillness and movement in perfect alignment.

         Inside the candles flicker. The furnace roars from the basement. I stretch out my legs, unfurl my fingers from my fist, rest my chin on my wrist. The dark days will be over soon. The dark days will be over.

Three Decades of Fun with Zach

The dashing, young Zach Anner

My son, Zach, is turning thirty today and that’s a pretty significant number. One of the ones where you sit back and assess where you’ve gotten to thus far, how your accomplishments match up to the rest of the world’s and where you still need to go. No pressure, just evaluate and judge yourself and figure out how you’re going to improve on things for the next thirty or so years.

I’m the mom, not the judge, so if all Zach had done and was going to do is sit and smile and laugh his infectious laugh, I’d be really fine with that, as long as it met his standards for happiness and fulfillment. But the person I gave birth to had plans and dreams and has already accomplished quite a bit for a person his age, or any age, for that matter, so let's go back to the beginning and retrace our steps.

It all started on a cool November 17^th evening in 1984 when I was home with my 19 month old son, Aarau, and started to feel a little back pain. I was seven months pregnant with an unknown alien in my womb who decided it would be fun to come out and get this party started two months early. The alien would later be known as “Zach,” and when he was unceremoniously plopped on my belly after three hours of hard labor, (I know, only three, but it hurt!) he lifted his little head and looked around, surveying the doors and windows, plotting his next move after realizing his escape to this cold, light-drenched world had only landed him a few feet from his previous surroundings. This was his first attempt to get away from me. It did not work.

 He was put in a box. I think they called it an incubator, an especially small prison for babies planning to crawl out of the hospital when no one’s looking and have underdeveloped lungs because of their premature births. Weighing in at a whopping 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Zach needed to be maintained in an artificial womb after abandoning the real one, where he could get fat and develop like he would’ve if he’d done the right thing and been born a little later. Now he had a heart monitor, tubes and needles sticking everywhere and little bruises from blood oxygen tests. I wasn’t allowed to hold him or feed him, breast milk had to be pumped and frozen, then thawed and delivered through a feeding tube so he wouldn’t lose calories by suckling. A rough beginning by any standards.

After five weeks in the Intensive Care Nursery, he came home with a heart monitor just in time for Christmas, weighing a little under five pounds. He was about the size of a very skinny football and his brother immediately took to him, referring to his heart monitor as “Zachy’s T.V.” and turning it off. So that was his first accomplishment, surviving his premature birth and making it home after a long hospital stay where he could live a normal life with his family.

Not so normal. His first year was filled with failures to meet every developmental milestone imaginable. He also screamed and cried inconsolably for hours on end which I later learned was an indication of neurological damage, (no Internet in ’84) but he had such a charming personality when he wasn’t crying and such apparent language abilities (I think he was putting sentences together by the time he was one) that we were able to live in comfortable denial that everything was okay and he was just “catching up” until he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy at fourteen months.

Fast forward to 29 years later.

A lot has happened since that diagnosis. I think Zach’s first sentence was “I want to be independent” and he’s done a lot to make that happen. He attended college in Buffalo until he escaped to The Disney College Program for a semester in Orlando, first time away from home, broken wheelchairs, hurricanes, every bad and good thing imaginable. He then went to Austin, Texas, knowing absolutely no one, and attended film school where he met friends who produced comedy shows and webseries with him. He then posted his famous audition video and went on a reality show (Your Own Show) and won his own show from Oprah (Rollin’ with Zach). When that show was canceled, he immediately hosted another show (Riding Shotgun) where he traveled across the country using suggestions and meeting people from the Reddit community along the way. He then moved to Los Angeles for a year where he filmed with Soul Pancake (Have a Little Faith) and his own youtube series, (Workout Wednesdays). And along the way he made more friends, had great adventures, and inspired people to lead better lives.

I’ve had the privilege of watching Zach address hundreds of people in cities throughout the country where he makes them laugh and makes them think. He doesn’t have to say much about what having a disability is like because his advocacy is his life. He shows through his humor that using a wheelchair and not being able to walk is not a big thing for him. It’s just one of the many things that can be a struggle and has very little to do with who he is as a person. But I don’t have to tell you about that because he’s writing his own book which will be published next year (If at Birth You Don't Succeed...) and you can see it for yourself when you watch his youtube videos.

He’s doing what we all want to do, using his life to inspire others, changing perceptions through example, and living his dreams by having meaningful work. And building great relationships, being creative and doing what he loves to do most, making people laugh.

Zach is turning thirty today and I won’t be at his birthday party because he’ll be in Austin with friends (and his brother) at The Alamo Draft House screening the long-awaited completion of their mockumentary webseries, "The Wingmen." His girlfriend will be baking him a cake. There’s a lot to celebrate.

Happy Birthday, Zach! I hope I get to stick around to see what the next 30 years hold for you. I can’t wait to see what you do next!

Colorado/Moab Part 2: Where Was I?

When I last wrote for this blog I was sitting in a rented Ford Edge in Arches National Park watching the sunset with a bunch of photographers. Then I came home and got bummed out about being away from all that mad beauty and didn’t feel like writing about how awful it was to be back in real life, so utterly disconnected. So I posted some filler, good writer filler, but nonetheless… 

Now I will attempt to put myself back in that place, to recall without longing, where I was when I wasn’t here.So where was I?

I never finished writing about Estes Park, the climb up to Dream Lake on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon in October with the sun shining and just enough clouds to make pretty pictures. It was our first day of hiking so we had to stop every fifty yards or so to take in the incredible mountain vistas and catch our breath as we panted noisily from the thinness of the air at elevations reaching 10,000 ft.

There were stunning lakes and trees, rushing streams, yellow leaves, colorful birds, pebbled paths, and some other folks enjoying the day. A light breeze, about 70 degrees, really couldn’t ask for anything more perfect. 

In the evening the elk gathered in the pastures to feed, the not so tiny young bumping against their mother’s undersides to get milk. They seemed unconcerned with the picture snappers lining up along the road standing sometimes within 5 feet of them while the sun turned the fields to gold as it set behind the mountains.

 Greg and I had come to Estes a few years earlier in the spring and weren’t impressed. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with us, but fortunately we came back and because there was so much we didn’t get to do this time around, we are planning to come back and stay for a whole week next year. The fall colors were lovely, we enjoyed our small hotel on the Fall River and found another great restaurant in “Ed’s Cantina.”

But this time around, after just one Saturday night and full day Sunday, we left for Moab,Utah on Monday morning.

We love Moab, though it’s not easy to get to, about an eight hour drive from Denver through curvy mountain roads, mostly highway 70, but that’s part of the attraction. You have to work to get there! And once you do, it’s like you’re on some crazy rock-walled planet, walking to the ends of the earth, seeing how explicitly a river formed a canyon. So how could that possibly be reasonably close to any airport?

Colorado River on Rt. 128 towards Moab

Our first digs upon arriving were at the Moab Valley RV Resort where we rented a small cottage. By small, I mean tiny, but it had everything we needed, including beds, a kitchenette, and most importantly, a toilet! It’s about the same price as a crappy hotel room in town (think Motel 6) but I love being in the campground without really having to rough it and it also has a pool and a laundry room which we’ve made use of when visiting in seasons when it was too hot to hike mid-day. 

View from Moab Valley RV Resort...seriously!

 We got in late Monday and headed to "Zax" for all you can eat pizza and salad which we were able to eat outside on the terrace on this warm desert evening. The town was full with half marathoners and whoever else has reason to come to Moab in October. With all of its parks and extreme sports, that could mean anybody, including Greg and I.

            After staring at the stars for a bit at our picnic table back at the camp we went to sleep with the windows open to let in the cool night air. Then Greg got up early and took the five minute drive to Arches for sunrise shots while I stayed back and enjoyed the kids and dogs and rocks and trees at the campground.

            Later on we hiked on a path named “Park Avenue” for its skyscraper sized red rock walls, taking both photos and video on another perfect weather day when, oddly, we were the only ones on this wide trail marked by cairns and loaded with small cacti, desert grasses, and twisted burnt looking trees. We’ve been to this same place on several occasions, but every time feels new and humbling and gets us into the proper mindset for connecting and acknowledging this ancient land that belongs to no one, but was fortunately preserved by the U.S. National Park Service.

            We then did a few of the more popular hikes, “Windows,” “Devil’s Garden,” (short version) and “Delicate Arch View” loving the strange formations but feeling a deep awe and reverence for every monumental rock that extends toward the sky and every pebble that rotates under our boots. This happens the next day when we head to Canyonlands and hike the “Grandview Point” in “Island in the Sky.” When we pull over to an unmarked stop and look out over the Green River winding its way through the canyon, we’re in touch with something extraordinary, like no place else on Earth.  

Unmarked pull-off in Canyonlands towards Grandview Point

 There are wonderful restaurants and side trips and fun places to stay I could tell you about here, but the heart of what happens when we go on these trips, is not in those details. It's a transformation of thought and presence and being that transcends travelogue. It's an awakening to an extraordinary past, an understanding of how small we are in the scheme of things, and a window,an arch, a bridge and a canyon that invite us to countless possibilities.
Greg’s way of staying connected is through his photos that he lovingly edits and perfects when we get home. For me, there is no photo that quite embodies the essence of being there and it’s the closest I get to feeling something spiritual. The god thing, I don’t really get, but being lost in nature is where I feel something mysterious, ancient, deep and connected. I haven’t quite figured out how to bring that essence back home with me yet and maybe I never will. So I guess I'll just have to keep going back!

There’s something out there and for me it’s a place. I just have to keep following that path and see where it leads.

           

All photos in this post were taken with my Nokia Windows Phone. Greg's are much better, trust me! Or better yet, get out there and take some of your own!

Colorado/Moab Part 1: Writing Here...

This is the first time I’m trying to write from the road. It’s harder than I thought because I have to take time away from vacationing to sit down and do it and somehow have perspective on what’s going on while it’s happening. To live in the moment and reflect and evaluate all at once is not such an easy task, like a photographer trying to take and edit and process photos all at the same time. Why photographers, you say?  Because right now I’m sitting in our rented Ford Edge at Arches National Park with the sun streaming in behind me, a panoramic view of the park and LaSal Mountains in the distance. When I look up from my computer, there are at least eight, no twelve, no twenty photographers in view  (Greg amongst them) all trying to capture this perfect light, what they call “the golden hour.” Writing while this is happening both puts me in and takes me out of the experience.

Though I always keep a journal whenever I travel, it usually gets littered with all the worries that cling to me when I leave home, so I’m trying to do something different this time, as in only write about the trip and get it publishable by tomorrow. It’s a challenge that I’m forcing myself to meet because one of my imaginary futures is that of a travel writer who writes while touring the world, all expenses paid by my wonderful insights, style, knowledge, and enormous and dedicated following.

In the real world, as in the one I’m living in right now, travel is a mixed bag. It gives me a lot of time I don’t usually have to sit around in a car or plane and think about things I haven’t quite worked out yet. Small issues, like what will I do with the rest of my life? Or why do I even think I can afford being on this trip right now? And because the sun has just set and the golden hour/15 minutes is almost over, I’ll backtrack and tell you how this whole trip started.

We left Buffalo on Saturday heading to Denver for a trek up to Estes Park for some strolling, scribbling and picture snapping (aka hiking, writing and landscape photography). The plane had some weirdness but I actually slept that deep sleep that only happens in the comfort of an airplane seat where you’re sitting pretty much upright so your head occasionally bobs forward like it’s about to fall off, startling you into wakefulness. But when the plane finally lands you get off fully rested (right?) and begin the search for your luggage which in Denver involves a long train ride to the baggage claim followed by crowds and confusion, hoards of lumbering sheep who are practically begging you to clock them in the knees with your suitcase as they hover close to the carousel refusing to move as you squeeze in to grab your bag weighing only slightly under the 50 lb. weight limit.

On to another moving vehicle, a bus to the car rental pick-up where the agent who couldn’t seem more disinterested asks how we are and where we’re going, then proceeds to skillfully hustle us into upgrading our vehicle to something bigger that will be more powerful, safer and more expensive for taking us into the mountains. I keep saying, “Budget, budget…” and Greg says, “But we really could use a bigger…” and we wind up with a full-size SUV that is quite nice but $125 over what we were planning on spending, a fantastic bargain by our crafty agent’s standards.

But we’re on our way, a mere hour and a half after landing at 4:30 and we get to see a few streaks of purple and pink through wispy clouds as we head up to Estes Park on a dark and winding road. This time of year in Colorado can bring any kind of weather, but one thing you can rely on when you’re at this elevation is an early sunset and a bit of time allowed for altitude adjustment.

We arrived at our small hotel called “Nicky’s Resort” at about 7:30 PM, a place we found on Expedia for $79 a night in an area where rooms can cost much, much more. But we read the 95% approval rated reviews, which we know can be fake, but in this case, we were in complete agreement with what we saw described on the Internet. The room was small, but clean, and  had a really cute knotty pine decor. We got the cheapest room with a king bed, but if you wanted to pay a bit more, you could get two queens, a fireplace, that kind of thing. We weren’t planning on spending much time in the room so what we got was fine and the location was perfect, quiet and off the road a bit, a short distance from town and Rocky Mountain National Park. The one negative thing we read about was the restaurant which was reported to be expensive and not very good, so we drove five minutes into Estes Park and had dinner at “Mama Rose’s,” one of the many good restaurants there where we enjoyed reasonably priced comfort food in a warm atmosphere with good service.

After a decent night’s sleep Greg left in the dark at 6:05 AM to get his sunrise shots while I stayed back and slept in until 8:30. It was a bit cold when I ventured out wearing my warm weather gear and discovered a lovely path of pine straw and pebbles next to the Fall River complete with the sounds of rushing water over rocks and aspens bright with yellow leaves dappled in sunlight.

That’s when I got it, the realization that whatever this costs money, aggravation or time-wise, is completely worth it. Not only did I need to get away, but I needed to come specifically here, to sit and stare, and dream and write, and reconnect with the beauty of the natural world.  

 

Invisible

Deer at Bryce Canyon by Greg McGill

I recently drove on the New York State Thruway on a sun-drenched autumn afternoon and couldn’t help noticing an astounding number of dead deer lying in various uncomfortable looking positions along the highway. I was traveling at sixty-five miles per hour so I was catching a quick glimpse of contorted corpses, blood and body parts, scattered remains of these lovely creatures strewn across the shoulder of the highway. I kept thinking about how this horror contrasted with the beauty of the leaves changing, the rolling green hillsides and puffy white clouds in a sky the color of morning glories.

I also noticed one young deer against the guardrail in the median whose head was upright and resting gently against the metal, so peacefully, it looked like he was sleeping. Maybe he was dreaming of being reunited with his parents who I’d probably passed on the road before reaching him. 

When I drove home a few hours later, it was pitch dark and I didn’t see much of anything except headlights coming toward me, tail lights in front of me and the white lines guiding on either side of my vehicle. I think it was a moonless night, but when I passed a clearing off to my right, I saw three glowing deer standing on a hillside, just for a second. It was the strangest thing because I couldn’t figure out where the light was coming from. Certainly not my headlights, they were pointed in a different direction. But there they were, lit up like that old “Green Ghost” game I used to play when I was a kid.

The image stuck with me but I didn’t think too much of it until I was safely back home in bed, trying to fall asleep, unsuccessfully, as usual. I thought about the three glowing deer and the ones slaughtered on the highway and wondered if there was any connection. I knew I’d witnessed the secret world of the night deer standing in the field but I also started thinking that what I’d seen glowing might not be of this world at all. That perhaps the ghosts of the slaughtered deer were standing still watching us, trying to make sense of the rushing wheels, why we all needed to get somewhere so fast, while they stood caught in unearthly stillness between this world and another.

I believe in an afterlife, though I’m not a religious person. It’s because of the experiences I’ve had with people close to me dying. My friend, Angela, who died at age 39, was put on life support for a few days after a brain aneurism, and I swear I felt her presence everywhere, except in the hospital room where she lingered. I especially felt her when I was near the lake, but shortly after she was officially dead, her presence faded. I felt that after my mother died too, that she was around for awhile, a white butterfly fluttering through my backyard, but then moved on once she’d checked in on us enough to know we’d be okay.

I don’t know why the deer would stick around. Maybe they too were looking out for their loved ones. Yeah, deer. I think they have feelings. And they certainly have reason to be concerned. The highway is a dangerous place, especially if you’re a wild animal trying to get to the other side in this life or the next. But I also think that the deer, and other things too, are looking at us, noticing what we humans are up to, even if we’re not too keen on looking back. There’s a lot out there, though it sometimes goes by in a blur. There's so much more we could be getting in touch with, if we would just slow down enough to appreciate what's going on around us.