Walkin’ the walk

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing.  In my last post, I said goodbye to my dog, Ember.  Her death was traumatic for our family and for the young man who hit and killed her.

One of the things that I preach to others is that we need to practice compassion, kindness, forgiveness, and empathy toward others, even those we don’t like or agree with.  It’s easy to tell others that they must do this in order to heal themselves and begin to heal the world. It was time for me to let the rubber meet the road and practice what is so easy to say, but not so easy to do.  A ‘healer, heal thyself’ moment I suppose.

In case you didn’t see the last post, Ember was killed in our driveway when a Fedex driver didn’t see her as she and our other dog ran toward his van.  The driver had no idea he had hit her.  He said that he saw the other dog and was looking for Ember, but it was too late.   My husband was livid.  He still is.  But, that’s his journey.

Fedex told us we could file a ‘claim’ with them.  I felt as if that was only more painful and would force us to relive the trauma.  I also knew that it was an accident.  There was no malice and although my husband claims he was going ‘too fast’, I can’t even confirm that.  I just don’t know.

I wanted to forgive and move on.  I knew that young man was suffering greatly over this.  He had always loved to see our crazy dogs greet him at the back door when he delivered packages.  He had dogs of his own.

I told my husband that he could file the claim or do whatever he felt was necessary, but I didn’t want to talk about it, or be involved.  I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to give this young man a hug and tell him it’s okay.

You see, in the past, I would have gone over every scenario that I thought may have prevented this.  I would have beat myself up for ordering a package that had to be delivered on that day at that moment.  I knew from the tracking info that he was probably delivering something that day, so  I should have had them inside, I should have been more attentive, I should have trained her better, blah, blah, blah.

This time, my path and my practice kicked in.  First of all, the minute I heard that truck enter our long driveway, I knew what was coming.  I knew in my gut, that he was going to hit her.  I can’t explain it, I just knew.

I felt grief and shock and pain and devastation, but I didn’t feel anger.  I didn’t try to cast blame on anyone, including myself.

Shit happens. I used to hate seeing that on bumper stickers and t shirts.  It seemed so harsh and profane.  But, now I get it;  it is harsh and profane because life can be that way.  This time, despite losing something so precious to me, I understood it.  Shit just happened and I now I have to walk the walk that I talked.

I knew that I would see that driver again.  I wanted to see him again and I knew that he would dread the day that he had to make his way slowly up our driveway, knowing the pain that his action had caused.  To us and to him.

He showed up about a week later with a package for me from a friend in Denver.  I walked out onto the driveway and gave him a hug.  I asked his name and told him that it was okay.  That it wasn’t his fault and that I loved her and will miss her fiercely, but I wanted him to know that I forgave him.

He was very emotional and explained again that he just didn’t see her and that it had been a horrible week for him. He felt guilt and remorse and had gone over it a 1000 times in his mind.

And I said, “Hey. Shit happens in life.  It’s all in how we react to it and deal with it.  I forgive you and I want you to forgive yourself”.  I gave him another hug and told him to take care.

In that package was a big, beautiful, sacred crystal that is now buried in the center of my medicine wheel garden, directly over Ember.  They both face west toward Ember’s native Colorado and my sacred spaces out west.

Practice empathy. Forgiveness. Grace.  They will lift our burdens and those of others.  It’s hard when you’re hurting, but it will ease our pain.

Goodbye Ember

My heart is in a million pieces …again.  Loss has attached itself to me like a tick that is hell-bent on teaching me some sort of lesson or sucking out my life’s blood by taking everything that is precious to me.

Yesterday, I lost my feisty, beautiful, bright light of a dog, Ember when she was hit by a delivery truck in our driveway on the farm.  She died immediately and with her, I could feel some of my soul empty out of me and into her, leaving another void that can never be filled. She would have been 3 years old in a few weeks.

The pain I’m feeling as I write this is acute and dizzying.  I feel foggy and dull, other than the stabbing throb in the pit of my stomach.

The Buddhists teach that in the end, we lose everything and everyone that we love.  That is just truth.  This is why they teach so much about loosening our grip; to be wary of becoming attached.  Attached to material goods, ideas, money, status and yes, those we love. And most of us love our pets as much as we love our humans; in my case, even more I think.

One minute, we were out picking asparagus and the next, she is dead.  Just like that.  We’ve all heard the saying that life changes in an instant, but until it’s laying in front of us in our driveway, we don’t always grasp it.

My dad died similarly two years ago.  He went in and had lunch with my mom, went out to do yard work and in an instant, he was dead in the back yard that he loved.  I guess there is some comfort in knowing that neither of them suffered and they were enjoying themselves right up to their final breath.  But I miss them both with an ache that is searing.

I miss my dad in that I can never call and seek his advice.  I am saddened that my mother continues her earthly journey without him by her side.  She misses him desperately.

Ember’s loss is still so new, such a raw, open wound.  I got up this morning to one very somber dog, who also misses his companion.  Making up one dish of food, seeing her empty crate, and her collar on the counter.  No barking and scrambling to be fed and get out the door.  Too calm; too somber.

Yesterday, we were all outside, my husband, two dogs and probably a couple of cats, when I heard the Fedex truck starting to come up the driveway, I knew the dogs would run that way.  I shouted “Fedex” and for some reason began running toward him as well.  I NEVER do that, but I KNEW what was happening. I could feel it before it happened.

We live on 10 acres and so it was some distance for me to cover and I can’t possibly keep up with terriers, but as I ran, I saw a flash of white on the driveway and I knew.  I knew she had been hit and then I knew EXACTLY where to look on the driveway as I approached and I saw her, motionless.

I KNEW she was gone.  As soon as I got to her.  There were no visible signs of trauma. The driver had no idea that he’d hit her.  He knew that we had two dogs, he’s at our house at least once a week.  He said that he saw our other dog, Junior.  Didn’t see Ember.

My husband sent him away angrily.  I feel compassion for him; I know that he suffered with this all day yesterday. Knowing that he killed my dog.  He didn’t mean to, but he was driving too fast and was distracted or something.

I’m doing my best to not second guess and flood my mind with ‘what ifs’ or ‘whys’.  Shit happens.  Good shit, bad shit, life shit.  We never know why. I believe that when my personal Fedex truck comes along and removes me from Earth, all of those questions will be answered.

For now, I grieve.  I know that Ember burned very brightly in her short time on Earth.  She was fiery as they come, and quick and loud and boisterous and demanding and loving and hysterically funny and I loved her with a fierceness that she returned to me.  She crammed a lot in during a short time.  She helped me through some other difficult losses and though I have no idea how we go on after losing her, I trust that we will.

Today, it’s one foot in front of the other.  Making sure our other dog, Junior is loved and cared for, as he is mourning the loss of his second lady friend.  We are resilient, yet so fragile.  That is life.

The winter of my discontent…

This has been a particularly brutal winter and seeing as how it’s our first in this location, we didn’t quite know what to expect.

We figured that since we’d spent the last 14 years in the foothills and mountains of Colorado, there was nothing that northern Michigan could throw at us that we couldn’t handle.

We didn’t anticipate the worst winter in many years; a potential record-setter for misery.   Looks like we’re getting a taste of the old ‘worst case scenario’ right off the bat.

So, as I was looking out at what seems like the 1000^th day in a row of snow, I started imagining what it would be like if I could strap into a time machine.  And the question arose:  would I go forward…or backward?

I’ve never been a live-in-the-past, go backward kind of person.  Oh, I have fond memories and I do admit that I’ve found myself longing to return to the college dorm for a few months of irresponsible nonsense, but overall, I tend to look ahead.

But, ‘ahead’ seems murkier than usual.  I’m not sure if it’s age or my still weakened mojo or some regrets that are leaking like a puddle, under my door of confidence.  It could be the weather and the cabin fever that my husband and I are suffering from.  Or maybe the lack of sunlight, which doesn’t seem like such a big deal until you experience it.

I guess what I’m admitting to is a desire to go back in time.  A year, two years…15 years, even.  There are things that I wish I could change or re-think or just do-over.  It’s entirely non-productive, but I can’t quite shake it.

The thing is, there is no way of knowing if a different decision or path or reaction would have resulted in a better outcome.  As one of my favorite Taoist proverbs teaches us, “Who’s to say what’s right or wrong; who’s to say what’s good or bad?”  We are faced with choices, every second of every day and we make them.  Period.  But still…what if, right?

So, let’s remember that we can only deal with right now; with this particular moment.  I can count on spring arriving sometime in the next few months.  Followed by summer, with its glorious warmth and sun and water.  The things we moved here for.

Then autumn and harvest arrive, bringing beauty so intense that you want to cry every time you crest a hill or turn a corner.  Then, winter returns and it’s time to go inside; time to re-new and reassess and nest and hunker down.  We need this time to re-connect with ourselves, for better or for worse.

After my dog Chili died this past October, a friend came over with a whole box full of spring bulbs to plant on her grave.  I was so grateful, but in so much pain, that I sleep-walked through the process.  We planted and covered the bulbs, as I had covered her little body and soul.  My friend could look ahead when I could not.

Those bulbs are resting under nearly 3 feet of snow, but in a few months, they will emerge in stages.  Crocus first, followed by daffodils and tulips.  A reminder that no matter how badly we want to go back, we can’t.  There is a rhythm and a familiar cycle, but it’s always propelling us forward and onward.

And so, here I am.  Right in the middle of the season that forces us to go inward; to rest and renew and struggle and squirm and wait.  So, there is the lesson.  Don’t struggle; don’t wait.  No past, no future, just now.  Ugh…so hard.

That first crocus will be a welcome sight and a reminder that we need periods of rest and death and destruction, in order for the new blooms to appear.  After this particular winter, I should sprout something magnificent when the time is right.

Change….sucks

Change.  One of the foundational principles of this blog.  Embrace it.  It’s inevitable. It’s part of life.  It’s…completely kicked my ass for the last 6 months.

Change.  I craved it.  Wished for it. Set it in motion.  Did it.  Now, I’ve got a little buyer’s remorse.  I have to be honest and face it.

We sold our beautiful home in Fraser, CO last May and moved to a 10 acre farm in northern Michigan.  A place where neither one of us had spent all that much time.  Where we had only a few friends and no real social support structure.  We figured that we could build that out in time.

It’s not that easy.  The farm takes more time, money and sweat than we anticipated.  When you don’t have kids, meeting people in a new place is a bit more difficult.  Then, the dog got sick, really sick and died.  We didn’t know the vets very well; we didn’t have the help and support of our friends and neighbors, as we would have in our old life.  A very difficult transition.

So, I got my change alright.  Much more change that I had planned for.  There’s that planning thing again.  Seems like I’d get the message, but I don’t.  You probably have been whipsawed by the inevitable evolution of life, too.  We shake our fist at the universe and shout ‘this isn’t how it was supposed to be’.

We set things in motion and sometimes we can’t stop or control where we go.  It’s like putting a rowboat into a river and realizing you only brought one paddle.

So, you have to adapt and you have to let go.  Let go of a lot of stuff; mostly regrets and ‘what ifs’.  Our remaining dog Junior has been a little melancholy since he lost his dog buddy.  As I roused him out of bed this morning for his breakfast, I looked at my husband and said “Junior and I are in the same place.  We miss our old life”.

Our old life where we knew our neighbors.  When Chili was still with us.  When were in familiar surroundings with our social support group firmly in place.  Where we could call for help and see a friendly face.

We’re going through a form of grief.  Grieving what was and not embracing what is.  I know I’ve preached and written and nagged about this, but when the rubber hits the road, it’s freakin‘ hard to put into practice.

So, I must remind myself that this change was implemented for a reason.  We’re closer to family, close to the water, we can grow our own food, we’ve downsized, we have no mortgage, we have some new friends who have been wonderful and helpful and compassionate, we live in a beautiful place in a vibrant community.  More ‘saying my gratefuls’, less pining for our ‘old life’.

Change is hard.  Change is life.  Embrace life.  Even when it hurts.