Snoopy factor

When people come to GardenSpirit Guesthouse for the first time, they usually "ooh" and "aah" about how the house is full of softness. There are soft pillows, fuzzy rugs that feel like blankets, blankets that feel like the softest fur imaginable (but no real fur, I swear), extra plush mattresses, fluffy towels.

It's like living in a pillow - exactly as I intended. Cozy, safe, cocoon-like and....soft.

This morning it dawned on me why I love the softness of life: it's my Snoopy factor. Long before I knew a thing about Peanuts and Charles Schultz's comic strips, I had a stuffed dog named Snoopy. It was an enormous stuffed animal for its time - Snoopy's body from tongue to tail was about as long as my entire child's body. He was created in a paws-splayed-out position with droopy eyes and long floppy ears, as if he was always drowsy, already ready for bed.

Every night I would perch him on top of my tummy under the covers and tell him my deepest secrets, my dreams, my nightmares. He became my first confidente; I could tell him anything. And he listened ever so patiently. I supposed it was my version of having an imaginary friend.

An imaginary friend would never measure up to the tactile pleasures of Snoopy, though. His two-tone brown fur was sewn together in a patchwork of fuzziness. His red plastic tongue stuck out at an endearing cock-eyed angle. His sad brown eyes were half covered with long brown yarn eyelashes.

The piece(s) de resistence were Snoopy's ears. Long and floppy, they were so long they could be pulled forward over his eyes - he looked as if he was wearing blinders; or piled on top of his head like Carmen Chiquita; or pulled straight out, ala Dumbo the Flying Elephant.

Best of all, they were lined with light brown satin that gleamed in certain light. I was in sensual ecstasy! I'd rub Snoopy's furry ear against my cheek ("with" the grain of the fur), then I would turn over to the cool, smoothness of the satin and caress my lips and chin.

I had always loved the satin binding on blankets. When my brother was just an infant and receiving a lot of baby gifts (hey, where were MY presents to open??) I co-opted one of his blankets as my own. "Blue Blanket" was an early predecessor of Snoopy. I loved the soft satin against my face...until one fateful day, Blue Blanket was accidentally left behind at a motel room.

My mother reports that I as a little girl I hated scratchy clothes -- no starchy, organdy dresses for me. To this day, when I buy baby gifts for new moms, I walk by the adorable fancy baby clothes in favor of a stretchy knit or, better yet, a blanket with satin edging.

So GardenSpirit is full of the Snoopy factor. And I am still in ecstasy when I touch those blankets and rugs and especially the satin curtain in the massage chair room. Ahhhhhh.....

Murder on the bridge

The massive red-shouldered hawk was perched calmly on the broad rails of the wooden bridge that crosses the creek at GardenSpirit. I watched in fascination as a squirrel darted across the bridge and several small birds swooped in to land on the new bird feeders I had erected in the back yard.

There was something wrong. Didn't those little creatures understand the danger posed by the hawk? Get out of there now! I took a closer look.

The hawk was craning its neck down between its feet, pulling out strings of ... my fascination turned to horror ... fresh meat. No wonder the woodland creatures were carefree - the hawk had selected another victim. They were safe. For now.

I couldn't pull myself away from the scene, wished I had my telephoto camera or at least a pair of binoculars. What was the bird eating?

As the hawk stepped up and down on its prey, holding it firmly as it stripped the flesh from the poor animal, I caught a glimpse of a long skinny tail, writhing in protest. With a shudder, I realized that the hawk's prey was still alive, being tortured to death by the sharp, highly effective beak and talons.

"Oh, get it over with," I muttered. "Kill it and put it out of its misery." I cannot stand to see animals suffer, or human beings for that matter. Yet, I was transfixed by the hawk's nonchalant and primal call to survive. There was no guilt in the kill; the body of the prey would nourish the body of the captor.

I was acutely aware of the proximity of the hawk's vicious meal to my own refrigerator, stocked with sanitized versions of the hawk's lunch: chicken salad, pepperoni pizza, cold sliced turkey. I was struck with my recent ah-ha realization that religious blessings before meals were actually an acknowledgment of the ultimate sacrifice paid by those lower on the food chain. A 'thank you" for trading their lives for ours.

Whatever was beneath the hawk's feet - a snake? rat? lizard? - apparently stopped fighting. The hawk ceased its deadly stomp-dance and even stopped feeding for a few moments, apparently satiated.

The clouds above made a madcap pattern of sun and shade as the hawk sat, contented, on the bridge - a full stomach, a brisk winter wind. I resumed my chores and when I looked outside again, the hawk had disappeared.

I couldn't resist -- I went down to the bridge, hoping for a clue about what kind of animal had died in front of my eyes. The carcass was gone. All I saw was a bloody stain on the rail. I lowered my head in sorrow and respect.

Life feeds on itself 100% of the time. And most of that time, I don't even notice...