The Ghosts and the Bears

The sagebrush seems empty, then it shimmers...a grizzly walks out, swings her mighty head toward the road and moves into the open with cubs tumbling behind her...I blink and the sagebrush is empty again.

The Teton/Yellowstone parks are inextricably woven into the tapestry of my life....and therefore, they are full of ghosts.

Some are ghosts of those gone...my Dad, my old dog, the magnificent bears "264", "760", "Blaze"
and others.

Some are ghosts of moments that seem to echo year after year...and each year there are more of them.

For much of the time since my first visit, Teton/Yellowstone has been my refuge. Through all my travels, it was the one place I always returned to.

When I would leave the Tetons...it felt as if my heart was being torn out by the roots...rather significant for a girl with a tumbleweed soul who has never felt rooted anywhere.

Early on, Autumn was what I associated with the Parks...bugling elk, moose in the rut, pouncing
coyotes, browsing black bears, fall arts festivals and golden aspens quaking under cerulean skies.

It was years before I saw my first grizzly...a distant bear roaming the slopes below Dunraven Pass. After the bear vanished into the trees, the guy standing next to me said "I feel like my heart just fell out of my chest". I had to agree and still feel that way every time I see a bear...

One spring when I needed to run away from the world, I wound up in the Tetons and worked my way north to Yellowstone... landing in the middle of my first serious bear jam.

Little did I know that the grizzlies I watched and the people I met that spring would change my life.

The bears, in particular, seem to be the common thread through the life lessons learned in the Parks.

Seeing, photographing and painting bears might have been my "goal"...but it has been the experiences along the way that have been of real value.

During my time among the grizzlies, I have met people briefly who touched my life deeply...and have forged extraordinary friendships that transcend the boundaries of the Park.

There are the ghosts of times when I escaped to the park to sort out the pieces after one sort of heartbreak or another...and exquisite moments of wonder that happily haunt me still.

Along my many miles and many years through the parks, I have been awestruck by things I've never seen before...and grief-stricken over those I will never see again.

I've tried to hold on and, finally, learned to let go.

Maybe it is the ambient heat of the geothermal features that throws fuel on the fire of my passion and melts the sometimes broken shards of my T2 soul, turning the pieces to quicksilver that pools together into something stronger (and hopefully wiser) each time.

There are ghost bears that walk through my dreams, play in my imagination and live in my heart.

They wander out of the sagebrush of my soul and onto my canvases.

The ghosts and the bears keep the Parks alive in my heart...and, maybe just as importantly, keep my heart alive in the Parks.







by Lyn StClair
Originally published June 15, 2007

The Mother of Creativity

Many people see my name and they assume that my Dad, Dean StClair, taught me to paint…but that isn't true.  When it comes to my “style” of painting, I am entirely self taught.  When it comes to the parent who took time to teach me in my youth…the credit goes to my one and only Mom, Betty StClair Horton.

Mom and Dad...before me.

Mom and Dad met in art school…they both worked in advertising art before I was born and shared a love of horses.  Whether by choice or because it was what was expected at the time, Mom left her commercial art career to raise my two younger brothers and I.  

From day one, I loved horses and from the time I could hold a crayon, I drew constantly (mostly horses)…it was my passion and a way of dealing with chronic shyness.  Growing up with artist parents meant art supplies were available and creativity always encouraged.  My shelves were filled with horse books…illustrated by greats like Robert Lougheed, Will James, Sam Savitt, Lucy Kemp-Welch, Keith Ward, Paul Brown and others.  I still have a Paul Brown book that was my Mom’s when she was young…with a drawing added by her toddler daughter, yours truly.

Mom (pregnant with me), Dad,
and "Tony", Dad's Morgan.

Dad worked from home as a freelance airbrush product illustrator and retouch artist.  For those of you who don’t know what a “retouch artist” is: he was essentially a human version of Photoshop, long before computers came into the art biz). Though he’d dreamed of being an artist as a child, he wouldn’t really begin painting fine art until after I was out on my own and a full time artist myself. He was almost 50 before he left the commercial art completely and didn’t start oil painting until a few years later. When I was growing up, Dad was a workaholic…if he wasn't working on commercial art jobs, he and Mom had projects going on our farm (my brothers and I helped them build stone walls, a barn, fences, gardens, etc). When Dad was in his studio (which was much of the time), disturbing him could be a punishable offense. 

Still, being a Daddy’s girl, I idolized him.

Me, age 4
with one of Mom's dog portraits
at a kennel club meeting

The unsung hero was my Mom.  In addition to bringing up three kids, managing a household, canning the garden produce, putting good meals on the table every night and helping Dad with the commercial art business, Mom raised and showed purebred dogs. She also did pastel canine portraits that she sold to fellow dog fanciers.  When I was about 10, I copied one of her portraits.  She raved over it…then promptly set me up with a box of pastels, some velour paper, and encouraged me to do portraits from life at the dog shows while she was busy grooming and showing.  

Mom along for one of
my art show trips to NY

As I launched the first incarnation of my professional art career at age 10, it was Mom who took me to the art store, subsidized my supplies and taught me a little about how to run a business as an artist. It was Mom who tried to convince her tomboy daughter to dress "professionally”, helped with marketing, wrangled some publicity and instructed me in my first medium of choice, pastel.  It was Mom who taught me how to tell gratuitously negative comments from constructive criticism, offered helpful critiques of her own and who encouraged my love of drawing from life….all before I was 15.  I remember the sense of fun and adventure Mom brought to our travels across the region for shows.  She will tell the tale of a weekend show where she’d decided to skip Sunday judging to go home early, but I had so many portraits lined up for the next day that I offered to pay for the motel (we stayed, and she wouldn’t let me pay for the room).  When my interest turned toward wildlife art, it was Mom who took me (age 13) to meet Guy Coheleach and insisted that I show him my portfolio.  

Among our many projects, Mom and I designed/built/created an “owl” costume for my high school homecoming float…it was so amazing that it was used for years at games and events until the school closed.  Mom made humor, ingenuity, and creativity into a way of life.

Mom and I at Birds in Art.
Wausau, Wisconsin

It wasn't that Dad didn't encourage, as well…he was just too busy for much more than a kind word now and then.  His copies of "Communication Arts" magazine were a source of inspiration, though. Braldt Bralds, Bernie Fuchs, and Bart Forbes were my earliest artist heroes and my original goal was to be a commercial illustrator like Dad. I wasn't really exposed to "fine art" until my early teens, when my parents gave me books on Charlie Russell and Frederick Remington. About that time, on a school trip, I saw the first original painting that really moved me:  Jamie Wyeth’s portrait of Andy Warhol. Then, during my senior year of high school, a beloved art teacher gave me Rein Poortvliet's "The Living Forest" and I was awestruck.

Mom and my Grandma
at the PWAF show in Georgia.

Dad left us when I was 16.  Like many divorces, it wasn't pretty…in the end, Mom was left alone to raise my younger brothers and I.  She struggled to make ends meet, so when I graduated at 17 there was no money for art school or college and no help from Dad. It was my high school art teacher who loaned me the money for the first quarter at The Colorado Institute of Art and after a Summer working as a commercial artist, I was off to the Rocky Mountains. Well, that’s what I thought, as the school promo catalog showed a town nestled in the mountains.  In reality, the school was located right in the middle of the Capitol Hill neighborhood of downtown Denver.  

Mom, looking at art in Georgia

Mom took time off from work and drove me to Colorado, where she helped set me up in my first apartment with three roommates.  The safety of Capitol Hill at that time was questionable, at best…so it was pretty brave of her to drive away, leaving her naive, rural-raised, 17 year old there to fend for herself.  Fend I did…and the sense of humor and adventure she’d given me on our past travels served me well then and through many “scary” situations since.  That one quarter of school was all I could afford, but I stayed in Denver, getting my first job as an illustrator at age 18.  It didn't last long.  True artist, it quickly became apparent that I did NOT like being told what to draw and within a year I walked away from the commercial art field forever.

Mom, Ray and I
at my gallery opening in Montana

So it was that, at 19, I went back to the dogs…doing portraits from life at shows and beginning to self publish a series of limited edition prints.  Building on the skills that Mom had taught me, within a few years I’d sold hundreds (if not thousands) of portraits from life and created over 600 different prints from my pen & ink drawings.  Those prints would wind up in collections all over the world.  

While making a living with the canine art, I continued exploring the equine and wildlife subjects that had captivated me since I was a child and began experimenting with different mediums and styles. My wildlife art quickly began winning awards in all mediums. Thanks in part to those childhood lessons 

from Mom about art, business and marketing (along with a healthy dose of determination and common sense), I have supported myself solely as an independent fine artist since I was a teen.

Mom, aunt Pat, cousin Connie and Grandma
 at the Waterfowl Festival in Maryland

Over the years, Mom has traveled from Tennessee to see my art at shows across the country, including New York, Wyoming, Montana, Alabama, Georgia, Wisconsin, Maryland and California.  Sometimes, she has joined me traveling to help at shows.  Meanwhile, though I traveled cross country to many of his shows...Dad never attended one of my exhibitions unless he was also in the show.  Mom always offered encouragement regarding my art…and there was never any doubt that she was proud of what I was doing.  I know Dad was often proud, too…but it was not always evident, and rarely spoken.  

Mom, offering carpentry skills, humor
and help building shelves for art in storage

Dad was certainly an inspiration when I was a child.  Through my teens, though, he was busy with his commercial career. Before Dad left the commercial art world to pursue painting full time, and before his second wife Linda decided to learn to paint, I had already found my own voice as an artist. After Dad and Linda started their art careers, I loved talking art with them...but I have a distinctly different philosophy of life, ethics and creative process than they did. Dad didn’t teach me to paint…but, by his example, Dad taught me to work hard and be willing to make hard sacrifices for the “dream”.

The quilt Mom made (with a little help from my friends)
 when I was fighting cancer.

Mom, on the other hand, made (and makes) hard sacrifices of her own…she just chose to make them for her family.  She is no stranger to hard work, either.  Mom’s generosity of spirit, boundless creativity in EVERYTHING she does and wicked sense of humor have always been an inspiration…not just for my art, but for a way of living.  

As child, I wanted to become an artist because my Dad was…but, in the long run, I AM an artist because of everything my Mom is. 

A Christmas Story

When I was 10, I asked my parents for a horse. Just any old horse wouldn't do, I was specific. I wanted a dappled grey gelding, about 14 hands, 7-8 years old, who would jump and run barrels. My folks knew they'd never find THAT...but, since I'd outgrown the Shetlands and none of the horses were "mine", they began the search for a solid horse.

Two days before Christmas they found HIM. A dappled grey Connemara gelding, 14 hands, 8 years old, who'd raced gymkhana and the steeplechase pony races (often winning). They bought him on the spot for the 'outrageous' price of $250, and went home to get the trailer. When they returned, another trailer was pulling out of the dealer's place. Years later we'd find out that it was the horse's original owners. They'd had a change of heart and came back for him...but it was too late.  Fortunately for me, the dealer kept to his bargain with Mom and Dad. Serendipitously, the little horse they called "Chigger" had been at the dealer's less than a day.

That Christmas morning, I found carrots in my stocking and looked out the picture window to see my dream horse tied to the split rail fence. (To this day I get misty just thinking about it.) "Chigger" was changed to "Clyde" and he became one of the many extraordinary animals that have shared my life.

There is a good reason that I have a soft spot for grey horses...

Happy Holidays, everyone...may all your dreams come true!

Oh, October

Maybe I haven't gotten much better at dodging the curves that life has thrown at me over the years...but I can say that I have grown to appreciate them more than I would ever have thought possible. October, my birth month, seems to be a catalyst for joyful, devastating and enlightening changes in my life.

Long ago on October 1, my day began with a prenatal appointment. My doctor said the baby was breach, but that was nothing to worry about at this point. Then he said “I always like to see an uneventful pregnancy”…but the pregnancy had not been uneventful at all. I lost a terrible amount of weight and, early on, had nearly miscarried while traveling alone through Oregon. 

Later that evening, something wasn’t right…terrible pain every so often. We called the doctor’s office and were told “don’t worry, that is normal”. As the pain started to come more frequently, we called again…whoever answered the phone seemed irritated and, again, said “don’t worry about it.”

This wasn’t a planned pregnancy, in fact, we had been in the process of separating when I learned I was pregnant. My husband had quit his job months before and he did other things with his money even when employed. My business had always been our main income…but at that time, insurance premiums were outrageous. I was a healthy, non-smoking 23 year old with no plans to get pregnant…so when the unplanned happened, we were uninsured.

My husband and I lived about a block from St.Luke’s hospital in Denver…so, when things got worse a few minutes after the second call to the doctor’s office, we went to the closest ER. After a quick exam, the ER docs started preparing me for an emergency C-section. Typically, they’d use a local, but the situation was so dire that they were going to knock me completely out. Things happened really fast from that point on.

As they prepped for surgery, I thought about stories that had been recently in the news about uninsured patients dying under anesthesia and started getting worried. The anesthesiologist drew a sharpie line on my throat and explained that he would tap me on that spot and I’d be out. The last thing I said was “am I going to wake up?” He assured me I would…then a throat thump and everything went dark.

When I woke, they wheeled my son by for a moment before taking him by ambulance to ICU at Children’s Hospital. I was only able to touch him for a second.

When I woke the next morning, he’d already died…a short life of about nine hours. I am grateful that someone talked us into holding him. He was beautiful, perfect, a head full of dark hair. The doctors said his lungs were not developed quite enough to survive. 

A cheerful nurse arrived to take down his name…she did not know he was dead. Then my doctor called and, I kid you not, chewed me out for not driving to his hospital 45 minutes away. As it was, we were an emergency at a hospital one block away…I shudder to think what would have happened if we’d tried to drive across town. 

In hindsight, I think the doctor’s bullying was because he was afraid of a malpractice suit…and, considering the way we had been treated by his office the night before, we probably had a good case. At the time, though, that wasn’t what we were thinking about.

Like the cheery nurse coming in for the name, the “celebratory” steak dinner before I checked out was also surreal.

I was a Mom for part of a day.

It was a 24 hour period filled with fear, confusion and ultimately grief. There are no words to express the feelings associated with the loss of a child. There was sweet sympathy expressed by friends and family afterwards over the death of our son. 

One friend touched our hearts, though, when he very insightfully said "you were parents even if only for a short time"...and thus shared with us a celebration of a life, even if it was a terribly short one. 

The years have eased the hurt and I occasionally wonder what my life would have been had things gone differently. It would be wonderful to have my son beside me...but I truly believe that our paths (his, mine, his father's) were as they should be.

Over time, I have come to believe that we are here to learn how to love one another unconditionally. That means loving...and losing. Trusting...and being betrayed. Holding back...and letting go. Giving your heart...and having it broken. Opening your soul...and having door after door slammed in your face. 

For how can one truly understand another's grief/pain/sorrow/loss if we have never experienced those things for ourselves? How can one know love if they've never felt it? How can you truly value love if you've never lost it? From these lessons come the empathy that ultimately, hopefully, gives us the potential to feel true compassion. From these experiences comes the strength to stand above and look beyond the trials that come our way and find the trails that lead to something better.

There are myriad experiences that shape who we are...but it is the choices we make about the path through those experiences that shapes who we become.  I am grateful for the loves AND the losses that have forged my life...they have given me the grace and grit to, hopefully, face anything.

(Originally posted October 1, 2012)

Go Limp

by Lyn StClair

You never know who will touch your life…sometimes, sadly, they aren't even here.

Since moving to this amazing place, I have felt a deepening connection to a woman I never met.  She was, it seems, something very special…brilliant, funny, beautiful, strong, feisty and wise.

Glynna was gone before I ever knew of this place that is now "home".  Friends shared snippets about her before my move, enough to make me realize that we might well have been friends.  She is often in my thoughts as I explore this place and marvel at its beauty. The more I learn of her from her family, the more I love her.  The other night, while perusing her family's old photo albums, it struck me that I've been seeing her in her daughter's smile.  Then came a little gift, from Glynna through her daughter, Cassidy…

Cassidy spoke of the new moon as a time for creating intention and, in describing her own intention for this new moon, shared two words of wisdom handed down from her Mom:  

"Go limp"

Those words were like a match tossed into my tinder heart (pun intended).  No explanation was needed as to their meaning because they were a beautifully succinct way of describing a life philosophy that I have been crafting for some time…and trying my best to practice.

Go limp.

We are taught to fight for what we love, work for what we want, to brace against pressure, suck up our gut and stand for what we believe in.  This can be a good thing, a way of creating our life and forging our dreams.  Being a rock has its place…but sometimes it is also important to let oneself be a leaf on the wind.  

Throughout my years, I have determinedly worked for my dreams.  Despite my best efforts, life has often picked me up and swept me in directions I never imagined wanting to go.  There are ragged scars in my heart and deep bruises in my soul from fighting the current over and over again.  

With time, hindsight has shown me the wisdom of going limp and letting go.  It did not come easily… often I was still fighting when "going limp" came, not as a choice, but out of pure exhaustion.  When you have given until you are empty or fought until you had nothing left (it's only a flesh wound!")…those are the moments when a deeper truth is revealed if you are willing to look for it.  More often than not, when I let go of what I wanted…something better came along.

These days I am learning to go limp sometimes when there is still some fight left…or before the fight even begins.  It is remarkable to discover the peace of mind that letting go can bring.  Of course, I will keep chasing after my dreams…but there is also empowerment in setting yourself free of that ego-driven desire for life to be the way you want it to be and simply accepting the perfect beauty of what it is.  

This wonderful home came into my life because, after years of struggle, I allowed myself to go limp.  It is a "soul" place that heals, teaches and inspires me.  With it came some remarkable people…including one incredible woman who was lost too soon to cancer.

Glynna, darlin', where ever you are, hope you know how much I appreciate being able to share this piece of Montana that you loved so much.  You are in my thoughts every time I ride the ranch or stand in speechless awe of this landscape.  Your family has become treasured friends and I am grateful for the opportunity to get to know you through them.  Thank you for the piece of my dream realized because your own dream come true…and for those two words:

Go limp

Thanks also to Cassidy Freeman for taking this wonderful photo of Newt, Jesse and I on top of the world (in more ways than one)

Heroes and Nightmares

by Lyn StClair

During my first night on the road to a recent show, my sleep was interrupted by a series of art show nightmares.  The only one I remember was of pulling out a painting of a black bear to discover I'd painted its feet in the wrong place.  The bear was walking in profile across the canvas and somehow I'd painted the feet from the legs furthest away from the viewer in front of the feet on the near side.  I woke in a panic…and was tempted to tear the truck apart to check.  Fortunately, it slowly occurred to me that I had not brought a black bear painting at all.  

Long ago when I was marketing my limited edition prints of dogs at dog shows, I would have dreams before my shows.  Okay, "dreams" isn't the right word…they were nightmares.

They were startlingly real…occurring in the very place I was or would be.  In those days, I would often sleep in my booth to protect my art (and to save money).  The alarm would go off and something utterly bizarre would happen at the show…then I'd awake and, because the details were so real, have to convince myself that it was just a dream.  Often there would be several different, equally real, dreams in a row…and they would all happen in exactly the show I was at.

One of these shows was in Detroit's Cobo Hall.  It was a two-day show…I would arrive the day before, set up and sleep in the booth.  After setting up, one of the dreams I had sleeping on the floor of my booth before the first day was that I arrived late and was just starting to hang my work as the final classes (groups) were being judged at the end of the second day.  I was desperately trying to hang my work while the other vendors were packing up.  

Most dreams happened the night before a show, but sometimes the nightmares would begin months before a show.  Some dreams were classic, like showing up without clothes or having all the customers and my fellow artists laugh mockingly at my work…others were just really weird.

Over the years, I began to notice a pattern…the more numerous and/or worse the dreams, the better the show sales would be.  For the longest time, I never mentioned THAT part of it to anyone for fear of jinxing it.

Then, one night, while staying at my Dad's on the way from Vermont to the Phippen Show in Prescott, AZ…I had a series of dreams so hilarious that I had to share.  There were several…but here are the two funniest:

In the first, I was trying to set up my booth in time to get much needed breakfast before the Quick Draw.  To my horror, I started opening the plastic tubs that I used for small paintings…only to discover they were filled with Christmas ornaments.  To make matters worse…worrying about the missing art made me late for breakfast and the other artists had eaten everything.  Of course I woke in a panic that I would "bonk" during the Quick Draw for lack of food…until I remembered I wasn't at the show yet.

Only to fall asleep again and have the WEIRDEST ART SHOW NIGHTMARE EVER…

At the Phippen Show, they had a separate area where paintings entered in the competition were brought to be judged.  I had brought my work over and discovered that they had added a horse competition to the jurying (real horses, not painted ones).  Though, at this time, I had no horses in real life…in my dream, I had entered my horse and was waiting beside my painting while the horses were judged.  While I stood there, someone came up and studied my painting then asked why I left it the way I did.  I turned to see what they were talking about and was shocked to see that my painting was not finished!  Devastated, I headed over to get my horse…but he wasn't there.  When I inquired, I was told that because of my horse's size he'd been moved to the "pony" category.  When I arrived at the pony section I was stunned to see that my horse really was much smaller than I remembered.  One of my art heroes, Bill Anton (yes, the artist), was the judge for the art and horse (and pony) competitions.  He was standing nearby, so I asked him if he thought I would look silly riding such a small horse.  He started to answer…then about that time the pony started farting loudly, rhythmically and repeatedly.  Bill said "Well, I think you have bigger problems than the size of that horse…" at which point I woke to find that the "farting" was actually Rob, my hubby-at-the-time, snoring in real life.

So, the next morning I told Rob and Dad about the dreams…and about my history with bad show dreams and what they seemed to mean.  Since these were the most vivid and strangest dreams so far, I kinda wanted witnesses to see if they meant a good show.

At the actual Phippen Show, Bill Anton (who really was the judge) awarded first place in drawing to my pencil piece…of horses.  The Quick draw went great and sales-wise, it ended up being by far, my best show ever at the time.

During the artist party, I was talking to Bill's wife and told her about the dream…she said "you have to tell Bill."  He probably thought I was a bit off…but he still ended up inviting me and a couple of other artists, including G. Russell Case to his studio (I was the only girl).  His studio was amazing, especially the hundreds of plein air studies stacked against the walls.  The guys all asked Bill if he'd trade and he did!  I was too shy to ask if he'd trade, though.

The next day I lamented to a collector friend, kicking myself for not being bold enough to ask Bill if he'd trade.  A little while later she brought Bill over and he said "of course I'd trade with you!".  He asked if there was a piece I had in mind.  There was, one that I had been thinking about ever since I saw it….a little study of the Tetons from the Idaho side.  

"My" gorgeous Bill Anton painting arrived shortly after the show with a nice note.  It is one of the favorites in my collection...for many reasons.

Ironically…little did I know that within 18 months, I would be living on the Idaho side of the Tetons.  

Oh yes…AND I got to trade with Russell Case (also a painting of my beloved West).

As to the nightmares on the way to Tulsa…it was my best show there, so far.

Wake Up Call

Ten years ago today a little Lightbulbhead went out.  The little Italian Greyhound that followed my every step for eighteen years crossed over.

Since then I have had many remarkable dreams of him...as if he wants to remind me that, one way or another, he is still around.

Over the past couple of weeks, people in three different states have, independently, spoke of their memories of the Gig (aka Litebulbhead).  

In Denver, at the fabulous Meininger's art store:  Pat, when meeting Newt said "you would bring in that miniature greyhound, Giggy"  (It had been at least 12 years since Gig had been in the store…and  probably more than 20 since he was a regular).

At another art store in Santa Fe, the Artisan:  while meeting Newt, T-Bird suddenly exclaimed:  "You had 'Litebulbhead!"  She  recounted his visit to Meiningers when she worked there…wearing his 'wolf' costume (that was nearly twenty years ago!).

Then, a few days later on FB, when a former collector of my pen and ink work of dogs was searching for me…another long lost collector, Linda, chimed in from Tennessee.  She posted a pic of a drawing I did many years ago of her Giant Schnauzer "Jezi" with this comment "Jezi and Lyn's Italian greyhound used to play together at shows and Lyn took pictures of Jezi play bowing to Mr Gig…"

These are people who only met the Gig once or twice…so I find it rather poetic that these encounters came in the days approaching the tenth anniversary of his death…which is today, the first day of Spring.  Perhaps Gig is trying to tell me something…

This path we walk is fraught with twists and turns…and along the way we touch countless others…often without even realizing it.  One can only wonder how many times in the course of your life that your kind word brought a lift to another's spirit…or, sadly, how many times a thoughtless barb has crushed another.

If a wee dog can spark fond memories in passing acquaintances a decade after his death…what then are the memories left in the wake of our own paths?

I cannot honestly say that all of my encounters have left pleasant memories…but I can hope that I have more often left good over bad.  Life has taught me, sometimes the hard way, to look with an open mind and a loving heart.  

As time passes, I am certainly more and more purposely mindful of TRYING to leave a happy wake (even though, being human, I do still trip up more than I'd care to).

Like people, dogs evolve throughout their life.  The puppy that starts its life with us is very different than the old dog we say goodbye to.

When a friend recently commented that her aging dog no longer looked like the young dog she KNEW, I thought of how many times I looked at younger photos of my elderly Italian greyhound and thought "that is not the dog I KNOW".  

If the eyes of our aging pets "look" different to us…possibly it is because they SEE differently than in years before.  

Giggy/Litebulbhead was always amazingly intelligent…but he became wiser with every year of his life.  Those eyes looked at me with such intensity sometimes…such love…even when I had let him (or myself) down.

It is said that the eyes are the mirror to the soul…and, like us, our old dogs' souls have seen so many things.  Not just happiness…but pain, anguish, grief…

UNlike us, their aging eyes still look with boundless hope, infinite forgiveness and unconditional love…even when they know the darkest parts of our flawed human souls.  

My animals are a treasure to me not because I dislike humans…quite the opposite, actually.  They are precious, in part, because they teach me to be a better human and always remind me to keep working on my wake…

Litebulbhead, my little Sensei…thank you for bringing so much light and happiness to so many people (including me).