1. Sam. I’m not sure what I’d do without him right now, THE dog, (well, I know what I’d do — probably rescue two more dogs immediately). I had Little D on top of Dexter’s crate, along with his ashes, collar, and a clay paw print. Sam noticed it there and asked to have it. At first I said no, just like I did when Dexter was still here, “no, that’s Dexter’s toy.” It only took a few minutes of that sweet face, the way he’d look at me, look at the toy, look back at me, sitting so polite and patient, before I gave in and let him have it. We played for a few minutes and then he got in his crate with it, which is when I took this picture. Sam is his own kind of sad about losing his brother.
2. The promise of our garden harvest. Most of our strawberries didn’t survive the heat, some of the flowers I transplanted are a bit droopy and wilted, and most of our lettuce was eaten by bugs, but there are baby cucumber and zucchini squash, tomatoes and peppers, and Eric has been using our basil when he makes pizza.
3. Tribe, smart, creative, loving friends, both online and in the flesh, all real, who are working on the same things I am, doing the same practice, setting the same intentions, giving me support and offering inspiration, making me smile.
5. New Girl, Season One, now available on Netflix streaming. I had missed the first part of the season, started watching late on Hulu.com, but now that it’s on Netflix I can catch up, (I clearly had missed WAY more than I realized). I love that show. The comedy happens in the context of people caring about each other, living together, and in the mess of that relationship, utterly beautiful and awkward and full of grace and completely complicated, the comedy naturally arises rather than resorting to stereotypes and meanness like so much other comedy seems to do. It’s smart funny, heart funny, real funny.
Bonus Joy: Yoga and weight training. I hadn’t been for a few weeks because first I was sick, then Dexter. It was good to get back to it.
This picture is the last one I took at Lee Martinez Park, the place we walk almost every day, sometimes twice. On that morning, that walk, I had no idea that the next day would be the day Dexter died. I knew it was coming, we’d known for a year it was on its way, but on that particular morning it still felt unknown, uncertain, undetermined.
We haven’t been back to Lee Martinez since Thursday morning, the last time we walked there with Dexter, the walk we took knowing it would be our last. We’ve been to City Park, Big South Trail, and this morning we walked at Colorado State University, but we haven’t been back to “our park.” It still feels too hard, too sad.
We’ve managed other grief hurdles. Eric cleaned the living room floor yesterday. The raw wood in that room was covered with tiny spots where Dexter’s nose had dripped, (because of his cancer, he basically had a constant runny nose). I washed some of the blankets from his bed, along with his Little D baby, (I’d originally planned to have him cremated with Big D but in the end I couldn’t stand to lose them both). Eric brought home his ashes, and I put those on top of his mostly empty crate, along with his collar and a clay paw print.
When I’m able to, I’ll open the ashes and put some in the urns I have that contain Obi’s ashes (one is on my writing desk and another on my meditation shrine) — I left room for Dexter so they’d be together again, they loved each other so much.
I still haven’t been able to put clean sheets on our bed (the ones that are there were slept on by Dexter) and his toothbrush is still on the counter, and I’m still putting a tiny offering of food in his bowl every time I feed Sam. I know it’s silly, but I was devastated yesterday when I went out to do poop patrol in the backyard and couldn’t find any of Dexter’s. I was so sad that I’d never get to pick up anymore of his poop — that’s a crazy kind of love.
Eric has been dealing with his grief, in part, by cooking. Yesterday, he made three pies. We did a pie drive by to our friends’ house last night because even as much as I love pie, we couldn’t eat it all ourselves.
Jamie Ridler’s mom, who also had cancer, passed the day after Dexter. Jamie invited me a few weeks ago to do a guest post in honor of her mom, the prompt being something her mom had recently said, “It’s not about being tough, it’s about being tender.” I have so much to say about that, will be finishing up my post and sending it to sweet Jamie later today. These losses (something we all face as we live and love), this prompt, has me thinking about how important it is that we have confidence in our basic goodness, the essential wisdom and compassion and power that rests in each of us, that we practice self-compassion and keep our hearts open, knowing that life is beautiful and brutal, tender and terrible.
In this audio recording, Pema Chödrön talks about basic goodness. She tells a story about burnt cookies and a fox that is such a great metaphor for how we can approach difficulty — we can allow ourselves to become hard, closed off, or we can stay open to reality, to be present for whatever might arise. Yes this means we will be vulnerable, we’ll get hurt, but we will also be amazed, healed.
My heart is broken right now. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. But there is so much worth showing up for. Such as:
A chance to get away. We hadn’t wanted to do this when Dexter was still here, were worried about being too far away from a vet if something happened. But now, sometime soon, the three of us are going to rent a cabin in the mountains and spend some time together in the green and the quiet.
Pie. Especially the ones made by my person, who is as sad as me, who knows just how I feel, just what I’m missing, who will talk all day about what we’ve lost and never get tired of it, who wants to do whatever he can to make me feel better.
Friends, near and far, sending us love and light. So many have reached out to me, offering such kindness, making this heavy thing so much easier to hold.
The sweet animal bodies that are still here, that long for love and need care. It’s Sam’s turn to become my favorite, and when we are all ready, there will be another dog.
Laughter. Last night, on the way to our friends’ house to deliver the pie, Eric suggested that they expected this happy gift of pie, so it would be funny if when they opened the door, we gave them a pie in the face instead. It was such a ridiculous and awful idea we laughed the rest of the way to their house. It felt good.
Brilliant nature — blooms and fruit and animals and trees and landscapes and sky and deep water and weather.
Practice. Yoga, meditation, writing, and dog — this regular attention, showing up and being open to whatever arises, moving in ways old and new, creativity and discovery, is medicine.
Music. I heard this song for the first time yesterday, and am totally in love.
because nothing lasts forever
some things aren’t meant to be
but you’ll never find the answers
until you set your old heart free
I’m so sad, kind and gentle reader, but at the same time I am so in love with my little life, my heart so full of every last wonderful thing that sometimes it feels like it will explode.
Open Space Practice, (AKA: A Thousand Shades of Gray) 