Turn left at the corner

My dog Niko is a trained and certified therapy dog and reading partner, 

which means he (and I) can go into nursing homes, assisted living residences, libraries, and schools to visit, do tricks, read aloud, or just lie around and be funny and/or comforting, whichever the situation calls for. So, when we pass someone on a walk, he stops and gazes expectantly at the passerby. That’s his job, to invite people into relationship, and he is good at it.

For that reason he has always loved to go onto the local college campus. Students stopped, singly, in small groups, and in droves, and asked – "Can I pet your dog?" Niko's response was to lean in, to sit, lie down, or turn belly up, always receiving laughter and delight in return. Students would compliment him and talk about how much they missed their dogs. "He chose ME!" they would exclaim if he lingered longer by one, melt into a prone position, and display his belly. 

 

Then COVID came. The campus emptied out. Niko  still preferred to turn left at the end of the block to go onto the campus, but it was disappointing; squirrels and an occasional rabbit were all he could find to divert his attention, but he had those at home. He missed his students, but each time we turned left; he is a dog of unquenchable hope. 

Then COVID receded! Students came back, and Niko stepped a little lighter when we turned onto the campus, where he spotted once again his pals, his fans, his reason to be! But here is the thing. After two years of COVID, of isolation, of mixed messages about how COVID spread (You might get it if you pet a dog!), the students now take no notice of Niko. They don’t pet him, or stop to reminisce about the dogs they left at home. They hurry past, phones at their faces, looking neither left nor right and certainly not at the expectant dog, who goes stock still when he spots one student or a gang, looking up at their faces, invitingly, even pathetically, slowly wagging his tail in gentle invitation. Students are now complete in themselves and their phones. 

Lucky for Niko, the occasional staff person does still stop and R. S. V.P. to Niko's invitation, and they talk about how he can smell their dog(s), or offer him a biscuit, or sadly tell about the dg they recently lost; some proudly describe the cat or two or three at home, waiting patiently for their return home at days end. 

 So there you have it: The therapy dog eager to be in relationship, the students fearful, unnoticing, isolated. But in spite of two snowstorms in the last week, each bringing seven inches of snow to our north side of the hill, there is no doubt that the season is turning and the spring display of new life is not far distant. Snowdrops have been seen; a few benighted crocuses are poking their purple flowers up through the melting snow.  

I would like to promise Niko that the students, too, will not be able to resist the call to warmth and welcome, and Niko will have his job back again. And he, possessing a hope and faith in the goodness of the world unrivaled by any religious adherent, will continue his insistence that we turn left at the corner.   Students, staff, squirrels, rabbits. The world is always full of lovely new possibilities.

January 1, 2023

Two friends and I agreed on a new year's resolution for 2022; my daughter chimed in with a variation. We agreed to take a picture each day and post it on Instagram. No saving up photos for future use, no mining past photo collections on the dull dreary days. The photos didn't have to be the greatest, but they had to be from that day.

And for the first time in my life, I carried through on a new year's resolution from January 1 to December 31! 

                  Nancy Lowry

Starting in my single digit years, I have most always vaguely and halfheartedly chosen a resolution because I assumed that's the way the world worked, and I wanted to be part of a world that worked. In my teens it was most likely about losing weight or being more charming (!), maybe even snagging a date or two. On into the twenties and upward, it was most likely about eating better or being a nicer, friendlier person. As my fifties and sixties rolled in, it was about writing a daily list of things to be thankful for, or drawing a picture a day, or even drawing a picture a day of things I was thankful for. Somewhere in my sixties and seventies, I lapsed. January 1^st  would roll around and I would dither, spend a few moments digging into hopeful changes I could make in my life, review my previous years of utter failure at keeping to the resolution discipline, and decide it was futile, vain, or even silly, Then a friend suggested the picture-a-day resolution. I agreed because I like photography and I wanted to support my friend. Another friend joined in. My daughter saw the potential interest and joined on her own schedule. And we were off. 

As someone who never saw a rule that wasn't asking to be circumvented or ignored, I was hopeful. And
almost right away, I knew this was going to work. It is encouraging to have the same goals as others. Each day, I was eager to see where others (our little crew on Instagram and others who shared photos by email or text) were going, what caught their eye, what they posted. And everywhere I went, I was seeing things with new eyes, new possibilities, new wonder. Sometimes, when I was ready to call it a day, I would realize that I had not done my photo, and just as quickly realized there was plenty of interest and imagination left in the day I thought had drawn to a close; I wandered outside in the dark with a light or set up a still life indoors with odds and ends.

I was unable to drive for seven months of this past year. and during that time, family and friends took me on photo-op field trips, sometimes on the prowl for new opportunities, sometimes to their favorite haunts; I am so grateful to them for these expeditions. Closer to home, I grew intrigued by the variety and beauty hiding in the nooks and crannies in the yard, underfoot, on the block, within walking distance. The mundane emerged with new glory and possibilities. 

Our little band of photographers has re-upped for a second year. What will it be like the second time around? Will the luster have faded? Have I seen it all? Taxed my resolve to the max?

A year ago, a friend used the Mary Oliver poem "Instructions for Living a Life" as the focal point for one of his photography exhibits:

   Pay attention.
   Be astonished.
   Tell about it.

Somewhere in the middle of my first year of taking a daily photograph and sharing it, Mary Oliver's simple set of instructions crystallized and became my own. Second time around, I will be paying attention. I will undoubtedly be astonished. And I will continue to take great pleasure in sharing my work and seeing other peoples' visions of what matters to them. 

Connecticut River, June 2022
Copyright Nancy Lowry