Grief is a Kitten
A pair of posts written in that dark dark November 2021, as I began to digest the passing of my closest animal and human companions, within a couple of weeks of each other.
Grief is a Kitten
Grief is a kitten wanting to toy with you
One moment a blanket of purring fuzzy love,
Contentedly crashed out on top of your chest, with her tail in your face.
The next its claws tear bloody scars across your aching heart,
Bound to heal over time,
But hurting like hell in the meantime.
To the unsuspecting traveler in the wild, though,
That tame kitten turns into a ferocious tiger,
High in the mountains or deep in the forest,
Pouncing on her prey seemingly out of nowhere.
May you carry a brightly burning torch to fight off her attack
With the flame of insight
Into the illusory nature of all material existence.
Or may some villagers come to join you in the jungle
Bringing you human company, food and music and dance,
To keep the forces of the jungle at bay… for the moment at least…
Until you continue on your solitary journey
After a good night’s rest by some kind stranger’s fire.
Of course, Truly Wise Ones
Will sit down by the tiger’s den
Bearing gifts of appreciation,
Looking her straight in the eye.
And she will welcome your company in her silent vigil,
Your steady presence by her side.
For she is but the flipside of love
And a divine lightning strike of illumination.
So you will welcome her warm feline breath,
Her rough tongue licking the tears off your cheek,
The weight of her enormous paws on your shoulders
A reminder of your smallness and the impermanence of all matter.
And if the tiger eats you, so be it.
We are all One.
The Loss of Power and the Power of Loss
After a week of wild winter storms, it finally happened:
The loss of power.
Or was it “the power of loss”?
A few days without electricity and internet leave me processing a mixed bag of feelings.
Fear boring into my bones, as I spent hours watching the wild waving of the towering trees all around, bent far beyond their presumptive breaking point, and the swirling dance of branches taller than my house, ruthlessly torn off by a ferocious wind blowing from an unusual direction. Temporarily freed from gravity, these aptly called “widow-makers” are all of a sudden released to come crashing down all around me. At the end of the storm, a sigh of relief. The house, the barn, the truck, the chickens and goats and even the bees, all are unscathed. An exciting lesson on the smallness and vulnerability of human life, caught in the maelstrom of the struggle between wind, sea, and forest.
The absence of electricity always gives my sensitive system a deep feeling of peace and relief. Of rest and quiet that takes me right back to a summer on a remote Philippine island or weeks on a desert retreat, many decades ago. I make a glorious bonfire with dead branches I cleaned out of gutters and off the roof, and spend hours staring into the flames as the sky darkens and the goats wish me a sleep goodnight. Who cares about a hot shower or TV when you can have darkness and silence? Unfortunately, most of my neighbors do, in this country of individual rights and freedom to do whatever you damn want as long as you can afford it. So those of us in small houses and trailers sit in darkness and silence while the palaces pollute our precious night with a barrage of generator noise, the louder, the bigger, the better. Going to sleep, I try to pretend the generators are purring cats. Since I am tired from hauling branches all day to clean up the mess from the storm, it sort of works, and makes me smile.
On the second day without power, I walk the neighborhood to distribute the goat cheese I made but cannot store without refrigeration. Storms are always great opportunities for making friends as we all check in on each other and exchange stories and rumors about how the rest of the island and the state are faring. This is the time when people’s allegiances along the rural-urban divide become clear. The new young couple are so traumatized that they are considering getting an air B&B, until I calm them down and suggest that they get out their camping gear to cook on. The older wealthy couple in the palace with the swimming pool and loudest generator in the ‘hood, who tried to sue my neighbor for cutting his trees until one of their own almost cleaved their house in two, lasted through only a single storm last year, much to our relief, and fled the island, putting their house on the market. Their replacements have never even tried to live here. The rest of us are just fine, stashing the contents of the non-working fridge on the front porch, since luckily it’s winter. And anyway, I can live just fine on goat milk kefir, the occasional chicken egg, and the last huckleberries still on the branches. Ah yes, that and visit my neighbors with the generator when I want light and laughter and company. But in the meantime, the cat and I agree that nothing beats snuggling by candlelight.
On the third day, I wake up to a humming refrigerator, but soon realize that the internet is still out. So here is the universe, inconveniencing the entire neighborhood, just to make sure Sabine gets another day off from work. I take the hint and spend a rare frosty but sunny morning walking on the beach. And this is where to power of loss hits me like a freight train. Without internet and work, I have nowhere to hide from the grief tiger’s attack. I sit by the water that is calling on my heart to reflect its glass-like calmness, and taste another tiny nibble from the mountain of grief that is mine to consume, that is blocking my way forward, no matter how hard I try to ignore it or find a way around. I can take breaks from this Herculean task in front of me, but ultimately, the only way forward is by facing it head-on. And apparently today is one of those days.
Who am I without my dog by my side? How can I walk the beach without my buddy? I keep turning around, since I am missing something, someone. Even the neighborhood dogs I encounter are confused since they don’t care so much about the human but are looking for my companion, “The Prancer.” Their humans sense my pain and the tears that are barely hidden behind the surface in my eyes, and they either walk on briskly after a stiff “hello” or take time to give me love and a fellow dog lovers’ embrace, often a surprise and definitely not pandemic-safe. And it turns out, the crustiest humans end up expressing some of the deepest empathy for my loss. When it comes to our dogs, no politics, money, age, or other factor matters beyond our shared human experience of that special bond. I have a growing list of pup suggestions, running the gamut from the pound to designer puppies worth my daughter’s college education -- in Europe, and with a wait about that long to boot! But I have promised myself to trust in divine timing and the universe’s deliverance of gifts at the time when I need them.
Who am I without my soul sister, the one human who understands me and loves me and accepts me in all my quirkiness? Why have I not yet mastered the art of opening my third eye on command to communicate with her at will through the ether? I feel like a tripod with two legs, without our daily texts and phone calls, to share a cooking success, a question about house design, a beautiful swim with a seal, the love of her grandkids, a deep silly laugh or another horror story about a member of our profession who shall remain unnamed here… I have been around Lillian so long that I mostly know how to answer the ever-present question, “What would Lillian say?” I don’t need Lillian’s presence physically, the way I may think I need my dog. But in Lillian, my soul found a home, a traveling companion, a kindred spirit that made the rest of the world feel less alien because there was always at least this one person who would understand my choices, my fears, my struggles and my joys. Rationally, I know she is still here, and I also know there are other kindred spirits out there. But I am more than a rational being, oh so much more, damn it. Rationally, I also know that death is part of life, part of the human experience, and that the sooner we learn that lesson, the clearer and more meaningful life becomes while we get to live it. The last six months have taught me six times more than the last six years, and I wouldn’t go back for anything.
And so I know that for now it is my job to sit alone with that mountain of grief, make friends with it, embrace it as it embraces me back, and nibble from it, until over time I become the mountain of my grief, and it becomes me.
The loss of power and the power of loss.
And on this note, at least for tonight, the kitten has fallen sound asleep on my lab.
