Duirwaigh

Go to the Door Laughing (Instructions for a Heart in Grief)

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome, and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows
Who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture.

Still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice
Go to the door laughing
And invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes
For each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.
                         ~Rumi

Saturday morning I was not laughing. I was in Charleston, South Carolina to hear Sue Monk Kidd speak on the craft of Writing with Soul. At 8 a.m. my unexpected visitor arrived by cell phone. It rang  loudly, waking me from a fitful dream. I answered to a tear stained voice telling me that Doobey, our beloved dachshund dog-child, had passed away. She was only six years old.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

After only 15 hours in Charleston, I packed my black canvas bag in the rented dodge and turned toward Atlanta. How could this have happened? Doobey was a rescue dog, a faithful companion who loved lap perching, blanket snuggling and riding with the windows down. She was healthy--never had so much as indigestion in six years. I didn't get to say goodbye. Did she suffer? Was it peaceful? How could liver disease take her so quickly? My mind was pressed heavy with questions, my heart sinking with the weight of the void. I sped down the interstate, trees and wildflowers all a blur, needing to be with my family, to rejoin the pack as we mourned the passing of one of our own. 

Welcome, and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows
Who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture.

Three hours into the drive home I needed coffee. My eyes and heart were drooping so I exited the highway in search of java. At the off-ramp intersection I looked to the left and to the right, wondering which direction would be more likely to yield an awakening elixir. As I gazed at the red light I noticed there, in front of me glowing like a green halo, was a Starbucks sign.(And why not? They are taking over the world, ya know.) As I pulled into the parking lot there were no spaces available, forcing me to park across the lot at a hotel.  A few minutes later, ice vanilla latte in hand, I crossed the parking lot toward my rented dodge to resume the journey home. Until...

I heard their voices before I could see them. A throng of voices--no. More than a throng. A bombastic hallelujah congregation--a Tabernacle Choir--of voices erupted into the air. I actually looked up. And around. Where was this coming from? It was all I could do to follow the sound. Every hair on my body stood up in holy reverence and beckoned me forward. It was coming from the lobby of the the hotel. What on earth...? I walked through the doors to see thirty or forty dark skinned, beautifully shining (beaming, actually) faces singing "Keep on Making a Way." You wanna talk rapture? This was it, for me. I stood there, transfixed. Or perhaps transfigured.

Still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

I put my car keys, cell phone and cafe latte on the lobby's side table in front of a large decorative bowl of potpourri or some such thing, then turned my face back to the choir. The room was not large. 20'x30' max with 9ft ceilings, which made the sound explode, reverberate and then tackle the sternum, the solar plexus, and the diaphragm. It entered my ears and blood stream simultaneously. The tears came effortlessly, before I even realized I was crying. It was the kind of crying motivated by sheer awe. My dog had died and there I was in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia, in the presence of Spirit. The side table, my alter. The choir, my angels. The song, my benediction.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice
Go to the door laughing
And invite them in.

Five paces behind me was bright sun beating on black asphalt, a few smokers sitting under the green umbrellas of Starbucks, traffic. Five paces in front of me: Glory. With a shudder I turned to look at the marquis of the hotel to get my bearings, to make sure it was all real. The Comfort Inn. I felt a disorienting moment of wooziness as I wondered if it was all real and reached out to steady myself on the side table. That's when Doobey reached out her wet nose to nuzzle my hand. I looked down to see it was only my ice latte melting, condensation dripping from the plastic cup onto my hand. I giggled through the tears and reached for my latte. That's when I noticed the sign. The potpourri bowl I had stacked my keys, phone and latte against was not a potpourri bowl at all. It was full of yellow, orange and green dog biscuits, with a sign that read "We at Comfort Inn welcome you and your dog. Your stay with us is a treat, so enjoy one with us."

Be grateful for whoever comes
For each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.

I grabbed a cookie and noticed it was in the shape of a hound. Short legs, squatty feet, long muzzle and upturned tail like Doobey. I clutched it to my heart and sank to the floor. I sobbed. And laughed. And sobbed again--all to the soundtrack of southern soul-piercing praise. An unusual eulogy: I'd come to Starbucks and found Comfort. I just needed refreshment and got Refreshed. I needed to stay awake, and found Awakening. An hour later the rehearsal was ending and by then the tears and laughter had passed into a trance-like breathing, a calm witness to the moment. When the last song ended, I grabbed my things, settled into the dodge and returned to I-20 as the sun was dipping low and red on the horizon. I placed the dog cookie on the seat for Doobey and rolled down the windows  so we could feel the wind in our hair. We drove the last miles home, together.

Doobey Girl
Turtle Doo
Xena Doo-Warrior Princess
We Miss You
And through the tears
We go to the door
Laughing
September 16, 2006   

Slow Boat from China

Hi friends,

First and foremost, thank you for believing in "A Knock at the Door!" There is much love and magic packed into that film and so far, judging from two years worth of letters, it has touched so many of you and brought a new hope to your lives. It has been posted to our site free of charge for two years in order to REMIND YOU THAT YOU ARE THE MAGIC YOU'VE BEEN MISSING. YOU ARE THE SECRET KEY TO OPENING THE DOOR OF POSSIBILITY. Thank you to all of you who've written to me your thoughts and musings on the film, as your letters remind me of my own magic when I have stumbled off the path.

I write this letter to tell you the story of publishing "A Knock at the Door" in book/cd format. We have joyfully and painfully experienced every kind of delay in the production process. It's like being pregnant and given a due date of September only to find out there are complications and the baby won't arrive until October. No, November. The anticipation is killing us. (But no blood and guts, only great anticipation and a huge desire to release the life into the world!)

We used a service in New York City who is reputable and professional. They print in China and actually published our Duirwaigh catalog which came out beautifully and in a very timely manner (about 120 days from start to finish). We anticipated a similar process this time around and were given a delivery date of September 11, 2006. Unfortunately, that date did not include a grace period for proofing mishaps.

The first color proofs sent to us were not accurate. Everything that should appear red was pink and the blues were lavendar/purple. So we had to assist in the color corrections and send them back which tacked two weeks to the process. The second set of proofs weren't much better, so we assisted once again which added another two weeks. The third set was much better and we approved them. (Have I mentioned that every time the proofs were not acceptible, we were charged 200.00 for new ones? Funny how that works...) But then came the issues with the DVD. When we received the master proof, we noticed that the credits scrolled too quickly and the framed around the film seemed 'jumpy' which resulted in a reprogramming of the DVD especially for television. I won't bother to go into the additional costs of this process, nor the time involved to get it right.  What I will say is that in the end, the original delivery date quoted to us as September 11, 2006 bumped to October 1, 2006 and then again to November 10, 2006.

As of today, all the books have been printed and bound. The DVDs are being inserted manually into the back of each book. When this process is finished, the books will be packaged for shipment and put on a boat from China to the USA, then on a truck to arrive at our door in Georgia.

They are telling us that the boat will leave October 11 from China. Keep your fingers crossed. This means we should have them by the end of October/Early November and we'll ship to you in time for Thanksgiving. Although it has been a frustrating series of set backs, I have to admit I like the symbolism of delivery on Thanksgiving. We have much to be thankful for, including your support for this home-grown project.

A few pieces of good news:

*The first edition is almost entirely sold out
*We have a Big Boy publisher who's expressed interest in reprinting the book
*A very well-known author has volunteered to write a forward for the book in the second printing

There's also a number of other projects brewing in regards to "A Knock at the Door", so stay tuned. You could play a role in helping us spread the magic. We'll keep you posted.

Brightly Woven,

Angi
President, Duirwaigh, Inc.

Merry Mondays - Free Prints!

To continue our pre-holiday savings blitz-o-bonanza, we're offering a huge savings on our prints! Buy any three prints or posters (published by Duirwaigh Publishing) and receive the fourth free! Some of the biggest savings you can receive are on our large matted prints. They are already reduced in price from 30.00 to 20.00. With this sale, you have the chance to save a total of 50%!! To navigate through the gorgeous selection of prints, click here.

Offer good until December 1, 2006 or until supplies last. Please PHONE IN YOUR ORDER as our nifty automated system cannot deduct your savings! It needs a human brain to do that...678.354.1147
(This offer does not apply to signed prints.)

Remember Who You Are

A few months ago I met with a group of writers willing to consider the spiritual aspects ofour personal writing and life stories. We met in Circle and part of that process was ritual. What follows is a deeply healing experience I had while partaking in a renewal ceremony. Not only did I not anticipate what happened, but I certainly didn't think I'd write about it. Some experiences transcend words.

*******************************************************
“Water doesn’t wash. It remembers.” That’s one of my favorite quotes. And that’s really saying something because I am a quote fiend. Like an addict who needs her regular fix, I’ll go a long way for the twelve, eighteen or forty seven words that will instigate the next high, lift me from normalcy and deposit me into the lap of wonder. I’m an inspiration junkie.

“Water doesn’t wash. It remembers.” If the author of this quote is to be believed, instead of cleansing through hydrogen, oxygen and friction, water simply remembers clean. It remembers what was. It remembers origin. To submerge in water is to partake in renewal, regeneration, remembrance.

Thirteen had come to the circle. To remember. To bear witness. To tell the story. Thirteen had come to the circle seeking alchemy’s magical science. Instead of turning base metals into gold through the use of chemicals, we sought to turn memory into memoir through the use of language. At the center of the circle, in it’s heart, a bowl of water. It sat quietly, as any god will do, awaiting its time. One night, this night, thirteen had come to seal the circle. And water got its chance.

I watched as, one by one, each of the thirteen bathed in its gift. Baptized in Memory. Restored to Origin. A rejoining was occurring, as grace settled like a sigh around the shoulders the circle. My heartbeat quickened as the bowl of water was placed before me. I stepped forward and peered into its depths. The reflection of a younger woman--my 28-year-old self-- stared back in invitation. It was enough. I remembered.

"Angi, I want you to move your toes," these were the first words I heard upon waking from a surgery that had been described to me as serious, but routine. The six hour procedure in surgical unit #3 was devoted to removing a disc in my neck and replacing it with bone to alleviate the pressure of a pinched nerve."Angi move your toes." I heard again. I did. So I could not comprehend the frustration in the voice as it commanded "Angi move your toes!" I was disoriented in the dark, thick world of anesthesia, but I managed to say "I’m trying," as I struggled with all my might to move the toes I thought were already moving.

Four more hours and one emergency surgery later, pain exploded me into consciousness. My neck and face were a raging fire but no one could tell me where the fire came from nor how to put it out. My toes ignored my plea to move, but so did my fingers, arms, shoulders, knees, hips and hands. My body was a weighted thing, and drowning.  While I slept, someone had filled my muscles’ pockets with stones and they sank heavily on the floor of my body, pinning me to the bed. My bladder was a scream, ripping through me with a serrated edge. Incapable of any natural release, it howled in protest yet no one heard. I called to the nurse’s station. No one came. I thought I might burst apart or faint from the pain. I would have gratefully urinated all over myself and the bed and anyone else for that matter, to relieve myself of the agony. But the bladder ignored my commands just as the toes did.

When relief came in the form of a catheter, the nurse was moving slowly.  Hours passed in each moment, while she removed the catheter from it’s container, donned her plastic gloves, pulled back the sheets, opened my legs and swabbed my skin with iodine. Fear clamped a cold fist on my heart. I was afraid she would hurt me but more afraid she would not help me. Caught like an animal, my heartbeat raced with panic. I resolved to be brave for nothing could be worse than the pressure threatening to burst me apart. I was wrong. The nurse could not locate my urethra. "Everybody’s made differently," she said as she fumbled between my legs exposing me to the hallway and the patients, visitors, and employees passing by the open door. She had to call another nurse. Each tick of the clock was a gathering storm threatening to break bladder and sanity both. When the second nurse arrived to deftly insert the catheter, a sharp pain punctured my groin and the remaining parchment -thin shred of my dignity. Hot solid tears slipped quietly down my cheeks. Part relief, part humiliation, they were to be the last of their kind for a long time.

To dismember is to take apart, to sever. Like the knife that cut the soft underbelly of my throat, slicing through muscle and bone, to press violently into the delicate space that my spinal cord called home, that hot July day in 1997 severed more than flesh and nerves. That day’s blade went deep, too deep, dismembering body and soul, flesh and spirit.

They waited. Those in the circle bore witness while my mind traveled distances only memory can traverse. A ripple across my reflection in the bowl took me, unexpectedly, to Africa, to the lap of story, to hear a lion’s tale. In the Disney movie the Lion King, Rafiki, shaman to the tribe, escorts Simba to a sacred pool of water where Simba can visit his father’s spirit. "Oh that’s just my reflection," mutters Simba in disgust as he peers into the water. "No," Rafiki says, "Look harder." And this time  Simba looks beyond reflection and into the water, into a deeper truth. There he sees his father, Mufasa.  “Remember who you are,” Mufasa admonishes his son. "You have forgotten me and so forgotten your place in the circle of life. Remember. Who. You. Are."  Simba, having been traumatized earlier in the story, has experienced dis-membering and now suffers the severing of his lion’s pride, his home and his place in the circle. In doing so he’s lost his identity and forgotten his purpose. Gazing into the pool of water, he remembers. Or, rather, he experiences re-membering: a realignment with his authentic self. His father, challenging him from the depths of memory, reawakens Simba’s purpose and beckons him to his place in the circle of life. The water, containing spirit, remembers Simba back to his original state. He has the body of a lion and the heart of a king. He belongs to a tribe. With memory comes identity restored, so Simba rushes back to the rock called pride to claim his place and live his legacy. With memory, the lion returns to the pride, and pride is restored to the lion.

I am the walking wounded. But I am walking. Like Simba, I hear Spirit beckon me to reclaim my place in the circle of life. It’s a long journey back. And one night, this night, I stand among the tribe of thirteen and bend deep into the bowl of water to see more than my reflection. I see who I was, who I am, who I can be. I hear the whispered promise in the bottom of the bowl. I bring the water to my throat, where the surgeon’s scalpel broke skin and spine and trust. The water sinks deep into all that was dismembered. And they’re back. Big, fat, wet tears trailing glory down my cheeks. Water for memory and salt for preservation.  I catch the few that fall from my chin and offer them to the center of the circle, for I have more than enough. The water fills me to overflowing. I. Am. Remembered.

Merry Monday September 4!

MERRY MONDAYS~!
Our special holiday sale continues, and this week we're offering 20% off ALL LINDA RAVENSCROFT PAINTINGS!! Buy a SECOND one (of equal or lesser value) and RECEIVE 25% OFF!! This offer will expire in 30 days. We're motivated to make room for Linda's newest arrivals! She's been soooooooo busy creating new works for her tarot and oracle card decks that we need to establish more shelf and wall space!. We're happy to give anyone who loves her work the helping hand of affordibility!

Click here to visit Linda's gallery. Offer good on phone orders until October 5, 2006.