Facing the Fact.

What’s lurks, as I lean into life?

I’ve cleared my vision,

Shifted into my old optimism,

Dove back in for another revision.

I went running—pain free—three times.

I went on a date—without talking about my deceased beloved.

I readied to claim my progress.

But, like a bully who knows me too well,

Grief casts her shadow.

Still.

I know what I don’t want to know.

Worse than the fact:

He’s never coming back

(which I still—three years, nine months in—don’t quite believe),

I never stop wishing

He was here

Making it easy

To lean into

My life

Without him.

Grief Day 1: Phoenix.

I had to have my pal Phoenix put down. I’m still in shock. The house feels empty. I’m the only one here. It’s been Phoenix and me for so long.

Anyone can own a dog, but sometimes a bond beyond explanation is born between person and dog. It’s obvious good fortune, a gift, a blessing. God’s knowing.

Of all the impossible and unforeseeable twists and turns that had to occur—me coming upon a desire for a puppy at the time Phoenix arrived in the world, locating her through my neighbor whose cousin bred Labs, and having her brought home when I told my then-husband to get the other pup—sings of synchronicity.

Destiny delivered a special soul in a Black Lab body to partner with me on my journey.

Love was Phoenix’s mission; I was her assignment.

She loved life, chasing balls, hanging out on the deck, walking in the woods, greeting neighbors, and spreading joy.

One neighbor often hollered, “Here comes Phoenix, happiest dog in the world!”

Phoenix was partial to her own kind when it came to dogs. Labs had an automatic in.

She loved most people but picked her favorites: like Carol, who connected with Phoenix on a trip to the beach in NC and her husband Pete, who Phoenix took to like a long-lost father, and Wayne, who Phoenix walked beside—no leash required.

Phoenix chose me as her favorite person. If dogs got tattoos, Phoenix’s would’ve said, “I’m with her.” Her gentle, undivided loyalty poured forth pure and untainted by the world for 11 beautiful years.

I never celebrated her birthday before, but this year felt like a major milestone.

She seemed to know. She made it a good one, with a long walk three doors down to the neighbor’s coveted healthy, lush, green grass. She made herself at home as if the world belonged to her. I sat down and pretended too, practicing Reiki, prayers, and presence on someone else’s lawn.

It didn’t matter. We were grabbing the good, our final togetherness.

Before we had to let go.

Somehow, Phoenix’s body broke down. Maybe for the simple reason life doesn’t last forever and there are many paths to getting out. We all go out. Ugh! The fact I don’t like.

I don’t like saying goodbye; I’ll never see you again. The worst!

However, if I’m going to keep living, I ought to find a better way to go through grief. These are the things we think of on Grief, Day 1… Maybe we can logic our way around. HAHAHA!

My heart hurts. My baby’s gone. I miss her presence, energy, persistence, her black shadow everywhere. I miss her marble-brown eyes looking into my soul. I miss laughing when she ignores me and walks away to sh*t in the neighbor’s yard at 3 am.

Missing my companion makes me miss my dead boyfriend even more. Isn’t that crazy?

Maybe it’s because Phoenix was “just a dog” in the way that Kevin was “just a boyfriend.”

Selected by God—specifically for me—to know, experience, give, receive, sit in, and cherish divine love. Divine. Sacred. Special. Undeniable. Unforgettable. Irreplaceable.

Soul connection.

Now, Grief walks in. No handcuffs. No threats. No tricks.

She reaches out her hand in invitation: “Come, walk with me a while again. We’ll journey deep but rise like dolphins out of water. We’ll return with radiance polished like diamonds.”

Grief looks different.

“Yep,” she says. “That happens when you’ve been looking at me for a while.” Then, she asks, “Are you ready?”

It feels like I imagine when I was a soul and I said yes, I’m ready for a body, and when I was I was a baby, but before I’d been birthed or touched the earth, I said, yes, I’m ready to join the world.

We don’t know what we’re ready for! Can we prepare for Grief? No, preparation isn’t necessary, but it helps.

It helps to be grounded.

If you’re not grounded, Grief can f*ck you up as bad as your worst bad, bad girlfriend.

Grief can make you love her and let her move in, not just to your home, but your heart.

Grief can take over your emotions the way a spoiled girl takes over closets.

Ah, but Grief carries crazy-cool wisdom woven in her womb. She’ll crack you into something new. She’ll sprinkle enlightenment around you and teach you how to feel the music in your blood. Grief will caress you and honor your secrets. She’ll comfort you in memory and heighten your senses.

She’ll make you think you’re high or crazy, but you won’t care. Once you have the courage to climb in bed with Grief, you may resist the world the way a teenage girl falling for her first boyfriend resists her parents.

Because that’s where the juice of life lives—where the heart and soul dance with unbridled emotions and the mind is merely a witness, all previous lessons dismissed.

While some people run from Grief, knowing she’s a too-large wrestling partner for their likes, the brave lean in. But, the wise don’t get lost or stuck.

I intend to be wise this time. Grief smiles as she takes me for a little spin.

Letter to a Dog Aunt.

Dear Aunt Jayne,

Thank you for letting me and my mom move in with you back in 2013. I was disappointed that little kitty departed before I got here. You were so sad when we arrived. (Not about the kitty, of course.)

I liked coming up and tucking you in at night. As the months went on, I enjoyed hearing the high pitch of happiness in your voice.

I never told you, but you when you called me Wiggle Butt, I loved it! You’re the only one I let call me that.

Please know how much I love you and appreciated sharing your home and part of my life with you. You made my life experience richer, fuller, more enjoyable, and safe.

You loved me without hesitation and respected my needs. You didn’t get mad at me. I know I was a good dog, so I didn’t give much reason, but I’m also very sensitive and you understood that.

Living with you and my mom, right here where we could walk to the woods and hang on the deck and chase squirrels and go on walkabout… what a life!

Aunt Jayne, remember when I first moved in (next door) and my mom used to throw the ball with that magic wand and I fetched it until I got distracted? Man, I could run fast when I was young!

Thank you for respecting my body as I grew sicker and weaker. Thank you for comforting my mom in all the ways only you can. That’s all I ever wanted to give her—more love. You help with that.

You made me feel safe and always welcome. Trust me, my mom notices if people don’t practically salute me. That’s how I feel about her, too. I love her sooo much!

That’s why it was hard to leave. I kept fighting, but I’m glad I got to walk out with dignity. You were there for that big awful hard thing. You were there when I ate my first and last hot dogs.

Why didn’t you introduce me to hot dogs earlier?!

I forgive you. I hope Tom’s there when I get wherever I’m going. I know it’s going to be an amazing experience. I’m sorry I had to leave, but thanks for making my journey easier.

Love and Black Velvet Hugs,

Your Wiggle Butt

How to Welcome Change.

“There’s little more satisfying than the feeling that at last you’ve taken ownership of yourself.” ~ Marianne Williamson

There comes a time.

You set yesterday aside,
Softly.

The thing you held;
Coveted.

Soft addictions cling like
Teddy Bears carried
Into adulthood.

Until you leave them.
Without tears.
Or fanfare.

There comes a time.

You pick up new habits
The way you used to
Lovers in bars.

It’s a new day.
You delight in what’s
Sweet, soulful, and true.

Your radiance.
In the mirror.

How I Took on the Bully Grief.

Grief used to grab me like a predator in the night.

I never saw her coming–trapped at her mercy.

She’d punch me in the stomach, hang on my shoulders,

and stir my thoughts like cocoa into milk.

My heart jiggled like Jello-O.

I felt weak and I didn’t care,

like a heavy person ordering a pizza.

I accepted Grief’s pressure.

Better than the strain on the faces of people

who fake fine, but everyone else sees

their emotional limp.

I didn’t want that limp, so I gave in:

Go ahead, pummel me, Grief.

She beat me severely.

Over time, her fists tired.

I passed through the pain,

like holding pigeon pose in yoga.

First, the scream. Then, the release.

Today, Grief swaggered in my direction.

She set herself upon inhabiting my space.

But, in this moment, she didn’t intimidate me.

I didn’t resist.

I breathed into my grief.

She passed me by like the wind.

 

 

 

What are you here to teach me, Grief?

What are you here to teach me, Grief?

Life is precious and valuable. You are strong and loved.

You can handle anything, but you’re not in control.

Trust. Dive all in—to the love, the joy, and yes, the grief.

Release the fear, pain and guilt.

Let it all flow through you. Transform.

Become new. Become more you. Over and over again. Live a life of metamorphosis.

Release the old tricks and tools that no longer serve. Stop grabbing.

Be good to your body.

Suck the marrow out of life. Take time out when you need it. Be true to you.

Honor your pain, sadness, heartache, and outrage, but don’t become them.

Learn. Forgive. Love. Hope. Pray. Cry. Laugh. Write. Dance. Read. Listen.

Appreciate. Accept. Honor. Share.

Life rolls out in seasons. You hating winter doesn’t make it any less cold.

If you’re still here., it’s for a reason. Find it. Live it. Love it.

Open to new possibilities.