When OCD Dreams

So there I was, deeply asleep.  Or so I thought.  Turns out that OCD is just another name for nothing left to relax about.

I dreamed that Phillip had accidentally thrown away all the living room furniture.

Now this is ridiculous on so many levels that I hesitate to even mention them, but because I can't stop myself, here are just a few:

1.  Phillip's natural habitat is prone, on the sofa.  He would really notice if it wasn't there.

2.  There is no way in the world that anything bigger than a gum wrapper could be thrown out by his hand unless he were under duress (i.e., I made him do it).

3.  Our living room is so small that even one less knitting needle would render it a barren wasteland.

4.  Did I mention that Phillip would be really sad, nay, deeply distraught, if there were any less furniture available than usual?

All of those obvious notions notwithstanding, its germane to note that I am the sort of person for whom sleep is more of an interruption in activity than anything else.  So when I go there (sometimes for minutes on end), it's driven by my physical self needing to go unconscious more than my intellectual self requiring rest.  Sometimes the body checks out while the mind remains in overdrive.  No one who has met me is surprised by this.

But in my dream (the sort where when you wake up, actual reality is the jolting state that requires you to suspend disbelief), the reality that Phillip had accidentally thrown out the entire living room suite was really plausible. 

How could that happen, your conscious and cognisant minds may ask?  Easy:  He DID throw away my fleece once.  Something so pivotal to my daily life and so much a part of my yardstick for personal development that I could not cope with its loss on any plane.  It really happened, and however much I have forgiven him, and however often I let him sleep indoors since it happened, It seems that my subconscious is still not done with it.

The (remaining) fleece is spun.  The sweater from it is knitted.  There is even a whole second sweater, that you can see if you go to an event where Black Water Abbey Yarns is represented.  And the pattern made from that project has been received with kudos, and even sold out upon its debut.

My sleeping self is still pissed off.

Poor Phillip suggested that (yet another) blog post would help me work through my grief.  And maybe get him closer to being forgiven by my inner knitter.  Forgiveness that his wife and roommate has already allegedly granted him.

At 3AM I actually woke him up and demanded to know how he could get rid of something we needed so much.  He groggily asked me what he had done this time.  "The living room furniture!" I answered, unable to believe that he had not been right there with me, in my dream.  "No honey," he replied, "I'm sure it's right there where you left it", and went back to sleep.

Easy for him to say.  All he has to do is sit down to feel fulfilled. 

I know that it's really time to let this one go, and my laboring brain is running home to unresolved issues so that I won't have to focus on pertinent ones (Book Deadline, anyone?).  Your suggestions, Gentle readers, are welcome and appreciated.  By Phillip.

About A Boy

Once upon a time, when I was checking my e-mail, I noticed a bulletin from Aberdeen Scottish Terrier Rescue.  The notice was not unusual - I'm on the mailing list, and I always glance at their goings on.  From time to time they throw fundraisers, recruit volunteers, and generally share information about my favorite kind of dog.  Becoming useful to this group has long been a goal of mine; one that I had hoped to achieve once I fled the cube farm and reclaimed my time schedule.  Haven't got there yet, you understand, but hope springs eternal.

And that's when I read about Bailey.

Bailey is a four-year-old puppy mill refugee.  He lived for his entire life in one room, a poorly-insulated, converted side porch in a neighborhood widely known as one of Portland's armpits.  Bailey shared his one-room world with 7 other dogs of various ages and stages of health.  Nobody in the room was house-trained.  Gobs of newspaper everywhere were allegedly there for that need.  There was one big bowl with kibbles in it for everybody to share.  There was a bowl of water, too, but it was much too dirty for anybody but the most desperate to drink.  None of the dogs got to go outside, because 8 barking dogs might alert the neighbors, and thereby, the authorities.  All 8 stayed in.  All day.  Every day.

Bailey was taken from this dark place to a foster home, where three happy and well-loved Scotties already live.  For a week, Bailey was in shock.  He would not play with the other dogs.  Didn't know what toys were.  Would not drink water, which his foster family had never seen, in their many years of Scottie rescue.  Jeannie and John, Bailey's rescuing Angels, gave him sips of water with a teaspoon every hour for several days. They taught him about potty training.  And they took him, for the first time ever, for walks.

For the first time in his life, Bailey went out into the crisp cold air and walked on a leash.  He waked happily, enthusiastically, and always politely.  The singular joy of being outdoors was the first and only happiness Bailey had ever known.  He responded to the air and the light and the love by relaxing a little, inch by inch.

On the sixth day after Bailey's rescue, someone threw a switch.  Bailey began to eat and drink on his own.  He made friends with the other Scotties.  He discovered toys.  But he still loved his walks the best of all.

Bailey stayed with Jeannie and John for over a month, gradually becoming familiar with what it means to be loved by humans.  And then Jeannie and John realized that Bailey was ready for a Forever Home, and out went the e-mail.

What happened next, you can probably guess.  The Huff Family, led by our boss, Paisley, elected to recruit Bailey for membership.

He fits right in with us.  He's really helpful when it comes to writing knitting books.  Not easy for someone who can't see in color, if you think about it...

Paisley can do it, though, so she's a great help to us both:

And so Bailey is here with us now, and we are doing everything we know to help him forget the dark times.  

Our house is small.  But our hearts are not, and neither is Bailey's.  He is opening up like a flower.  Still flinches if we move too quickly toward him.  Still waits to be told when it's time to eat and drink.  But he wants so much to please us.  And if ever we are in doubt about what he might need, we only have to take him for a walk.  Funny the way things are:  How little it takes to give love.  How easy it is to offer the smallest kindness, which I now understand, can save a life. 

God, please let me endeavor to be the person Bailey thinks I am.
 

The Sheep called. They said they would make more.

Your response, Gentle Readers, to the news of my sweater loss has been truly astounding.  Gobsmacking, actually.  I knew I had many great knitting friends, but the outpouring of love that has washed over me from you all has completely blown my mind.

Everyone who contacted me said they felt my loss as their own, and unbelievably, offered over and over to help.  Help to search E-bay and Craig's List for me.  Help to re-knit all the sweaters.  Help to come over and paper my neighborhood with signs.  And most importantly, help keeping my spirits up.  Friends have called to check in on me.  Made sure I wasn't hiding under a pile of acrylic yarn.  Offered to bring over snacks.  Even sent replacement birthday presents for Lindsay. 

Knitters can do anything, and when they close ranks around one of their own, there is no safer or more loved place in the world. 

So I have spent the last week licking my wounds, thanking God for my loving and talented supporters, and reminding myself that my problems are blessedly those of the First World.

Worst Things I Did Last Week:

1.    Cry in the police station.  Really hard.  With snot bubbles.
2.    Visit pawn shops, where I was informed that no information could be given to me because they have to "protect the privacy" of their clients (I wondered who was protecting my privacy).
3.    Tell my little girl her birthday presents were stolen and she would have to wait till I could replace them.
4.    Wake up in the middle of every night remembering that the sweaters are gone and try to imagine ways of finding them.
5.    Kick myself for thinking the locked trunk of my car, in my own driveway would be a safe place to store my life's work.

Best Things I Did Last Week:

1.    Read a note of encouragement from a law enforcement veteran who has become a knitter.
2.    Visit pawn shops, where I saw things people have parted with, either willingly or not, under duress.  Belongings are just things.  It's people we can never replace.
3.    Drive my 76-year-old mom to the shoe store, where she insisted on replacing Lindsay's stolen birthday Danskos.
4.    Remind myself in the middle of the night that there is a reason for my loss.  Maybe God decided it was time to remind me how loved I am.
5.    Laugh my ass off when Tina asked me to imagine all the hobos in Portland dressed in Mary Scott Huff sweaters.  Style points at the Rescue Mission would be off the charts.
6.    Be hugged by Phillip, Lindsay and Campbell.  All at the same time.

Gentle Readers, your selflessly kind offers to undertake a massive reknitting project have completely floored me.  If, after a couple more weeks, the samples haven't found their way home. I will be contacting everyone who volunteered to help in that way.  The yarn companies will have to be contacted first, and then there will need to be some sort of organization,  of which I still can't quite conceive.  But I will.

And in the meantime, there are still (thankfully) deadlines for me to meet, and knitting to knit, and ideas to have.  And Blessings to Count.  Thank you, thank you, both old friends and new.  You lot are more than I ever dreamed of, and more than I deserve. 

And thanks especially to whomever called the sheep.