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A lot has been going on lately, but I've been short on words. My mind is slowing down. Winter is a quiet season, a season of sleep--and my ideas are dreaming.
I'm nourishing those dreams by catching light where I can. I'm tucking them under layers of other's words. I'm giving them permission to rest. To grow. To blossom again when they are ready.
Three years ago, in October, my grandmother died. The following October I lost over 20 percent of my body weight, was unable to eat, and doctors were unsure what was wrong with me. The October after that I lost the only pregnancy I've ever had. And then, this October, I lost my best friend.
I don't want to be paranoid, but I'm sensing a pattern.
Fall used to be my favorite season. I loved the crisp air and clear skies, the sweet smell of decaying leaves. I loved pumpkins and apple cider. I loved Halloween. And this year, before my dog died, as the air began to cool and the leaves began to change, I found myself reaching backward, scouring my memory for that feeling. I let myself hope that a piece of my life could revert back to what it used to be.
I really ought to know better.
No, that's too harsh. I don't think we ever stop hoping to recover what we've lost, whether it's a person, a place, or something as simple as our innocence. It's part of human nature. We seek pleasure and push away pain. We struggle against change. We try to keep solid ground under our feet.
Unfortunately, we're not capable of building ground solid enough to withstand life. As Pema Chodron says, trying to control our experience "is setting ourselves up for failure, because sooner or later we're going to have an experience we can't control." We are going to lose someone we love. We are going to get sick. We are going to die. And, not surprisingly, we aren't going to feel very good about any of it.
But guess what: we don't have to. "We always want to get rid of misery rather than see how it works together with joy," Pema says. "The point isn't to cultivate one thing as opposed to another, but to relate properly to where we are." It's okay to be sad. To grieve. To be frightened or angry or anxious. Joy would not exist without sadness. Love would not exist without death. Spring would not exist without fall.
I think I loved fall so much as a child because it was a little death. I knew spring and summer would come again, and so it was easy to be right where I was, to enjoy everything the season had to offer. As the deaths in my life have gotten bigger, as the metaphorical springs and summers have become unpredictable and unknown, I've learned that love changes, life changes, and I change, too. The ground beneath my feet will continue to shift. It's time to get comfortable with falling.
These days I've been sitting with my sadness, but I've also been trying something new. I've been reaching through to the tremendous love and joy on the other side of that sadness. It's hard--but so important--to remember that grief would not exist without love. And while the ones we love will leave us, our love for them remains. I drew so much comfort from Sandy over the years, and all of that comfort was rooted in my love for her. I still have that love. When I am missing her I draw it up into my heart and let it comfort me, as much as it can.
I've been struggling to flesh out the marketing section of my book proposal, and so my editor offered up the following question: "When you were first grieving the loss of your brother, what do you wish you'd had?"
It was a heavy question, one that left me brain dead for a minute or two. I'd mostly wished I had my brother back. But after I'd had some time to think about it, I remembered the Elizabeth McCracken quote I've mentioned here before, and I thought yes, what I'd really wanted was a banner over my head that let everyone know what had happened, so I wouldn't have to say it out loud: My Brother Hanged Himself.
That isn't exactly a marketing campaign in the making. (Although would people buy t-shirts that advertised their secret pain? God, could you imagine if everyone put it out there, just for one day? We might actually achieve world peace.) But it got me thinking about the intensely solitary experience of grief, and how much mourning has changed in this country. In the 19th century widows wore black for two years. Men wore black armbands to signify grieving well into the 20th century. People were not expected to attend parties or social events. When did this change into a day or two of bereavement leave from work and the encouragement to try and make life as "normal" as possible?
I learned a couple of things after my brother died. One of them was that my life was never going to be the same, and that trying to live as though it was felt like a sham. It seems to me like the restrictions on mourners of yesteryear took that into consideration. People dressed differently when they were grieving, they behaved differently, because they were different. Of course this overlooks the solace and needed break from grieving that a party or gathering can provide. And maybe some people do feel most comfortable trying to keep their routines unchanged.
But me, I would have worn the shit out of a black veil.
These thoughts are, of course, at the forefront of my mind as I mourn my dog. Like a friend of mine said, a fresh loss can trigger feelings about an older one. What I'm remembering most about grieving my brother is how lost for words I was, how much I wished I had something else--like a full-length black dress--to do the talking.
What surprises me is that I feel the same way today.
Losing your dog is not supposed to be like losing your brother--but for me it is. Loss is loss. Grief is grief. Love is love. I'm not sure I'm eccentric enough to bring back Victorian mourning (though the hipsters might do it for me), so this time I'll have to weave an aching ring of emptiness with words to wear on my metaphorical sleeve.
Help, I prayed with each in- and exhalation on Saturday, as my dog lay in the veterinary hospital.
Thanks , I whispered over and over again, as I stroked the soft fur between her eyes while she took her final breaths.
Wow , my husband said later, at home, reflecting back on the 14 amazing years of her life while we clung to each other in the kitchen.
Sandy Bear, may the cathedral of love you built in our hearts continue to be filled and expanded. You were a motherfucking awesome dog.
Well, August is over, and the summer is slipping away. My husband and I are capping the season off with a much needed road trip to celebrate our thirteenth anniversary. I am looking forward to shorter days, cooler weather, and new adventures. See you in September!
