Today I took a walk. It was the same walk that I took about six months ago. I retraced my steps – something I've been avoiding doing often. I saw the same rocks. I saw the same creek. I saw the same path. I saw the same mountains. And yet everything was so different. The grass is now dormant. The ruddy trail has a different landscape. There are no prairie dogs. There are different stacks of cairns along the way. Everything is the same and yet so different.
As Kira and I walked the path six months back, I had noted the damage from the floods. This time as we walked the path, I again noticed the damage from the floods – but I also noticed the damage from my own flood. I walked along the creek and I came to the place where six months ago I saw the tracks of a mountain lion. I texted you about it right then, because it was just a day or two after you'd seen three mountain lions trotting across the road just meters away. Through our texts, we questioned if it was one of the same lions. Now a run in with a mountain lion seems very minor. Death trumps animal encounter.
I remember how complete I felt that day on that walk. Taking some time for myself, getting some exercise, making Kira happy, giving you some alone time. Now it's all alone time. Or is it? No matter how many bodies I surround myself with – I always feel alone. But when I'm alone, I can more connected. Why does that connection frighten me?
I have not gotten outside very much lately. I have stayed on the couch, under a blanket, in bed, hiding in the arms of a loved one, inebriated by music or drink or circumstance, behind the guise of social media or a screen – I have been numbing the pain. And that's okay. It's okay because I recognize what it is that I'm doing. The path that I'm choosing. I'm understanding that I have a need to hurt in a different way, disguise the pain, mistake it as something else. But I still feel it always. Even when I dam up the path, the grief breaks through powerfully and floods my spirit with sorrow. So when I stepped outdoors today and into solitude – as I walked on that path, traveling through time to that place six months ago and then back again – I felt the weight of my grief. I sat with the reality of my grief. Grief comes in many forms: It feels. It stings. It burns. It loiters. It numbs. If you experienced the symptoms of grief without being aware of your issue, you would certainly call your doctor to find out what's wrong.
As I walked, I realized I felt angry at the beauty of nature. I wondered if the dead grass along the way would feel the same way, if it could feel. I felt angry at the sun for warming my skin – for allowing me to be in a t-shirt in 70° weather in February. Something that would usually make me so happy, except today it made me sad. I felt angry at the brook for allowing water to run so peacefully from here to there. Here to where? I listen to the sound of it gently babbling over rocks around sticks and warming under the heat of the warm sun. I felt angry at Kira for each excited step, moving swiftly like a champion. I felt envious of what I can only imagine is her ability to forget, even just for a bit.
A couple years ago my friend Leah told me that when things got hard she often reminded herself to 'look up'. So as I walked along the path today, instead of looking down at my next rocky step, I looked up. I saw the splendor of the mountains, the grace of the horizon, the rays of the sun, the swing of the trees. I saw life. And when I saw life around me, it infused the life within me. I was forced to sip it in with each breath. My insides warmed just a bit. But maybe a bit is all I can handle.
There are so many ways to numb pain. Hiding under a blanket. Oversleeping. Overworking. Staying too busy. A screen. A drink. A pill. A puff. A line. A dip. And yet what do those quick fixes do except create a bottleneck in the brook which needs to flow? Create a bottleneck in the tears that need to fall? My teacher Baron says, "In order to heal, you must feel". Getting on that path today showed me a bit of light. It took me away from the buzz of distraction and numbing agents, and back into the space of remembering. Remembering my grief in its heaviness. Remembering the non-linear nature of this beast. Remembering the memories of the last time I walked there, when it seemed much smoother. It reminded me that I can be with the stillness – that the stillness breaks up the clutter in my mind. It gives me space for thoughts, memories, breath, and grief: the loiterer that it is. Sometimes life in the shadows is ok, but we need to step into the sun to feel the warmth.
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Mr. Chipmunk
Since you've been gone, you have only shown up in nightmares. My therapist tells me that the nightmares are occurring because my mind knows there's been a trauma involving you, so it spends the whole night imagining the worst case scenario. Unfortunately for my imagination, reality is worse. But I've spent many a night over the past three weeks seeing you cheat on me with other women, tell me you didn't love me, come to me as a ghost reminding me that you are dead, break up with me, turn your back on me when I'm crying, and die over and over again. The nightmares have been better than the waking moments because at least I get to see you, but painful nonetheless.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
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