Why It’s Important to Resist the Urge to Immediately Fill the Void After Loss

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It’s hard coming home right now.

The front window is empty.

The halls are quiet.

And there is no canine companion to great me as I enter.

I caught myself scanning the front of PetSmart today, half-hoping that they had an adoption event going on. And that’s just the latest urge of many to select a new puppy that I’ve experienced in the past week. The desire to immediately fill that dark cavity in my heart, to fill the silent vacuum with the cacophony and enthusiasm of youth, is powerful.

Yet it is too soon to give in to that yearning.

Because right now, that longing is coming from a place of grief, of desperation for the pain to fade and for what we lost to be returned. Bringing a new dog in now would be less from a desire for them and more from an attempt to fill the Tiger-sized crater in our home.

None of us likes to sit with pain. To be still and experience the aching longing and hollowed heart that follows loss. We seek to fill that chasm with whatever is at hand and of interest.

In times of loss, some turn to food, finding temporary comfort in a sense of physical fullness. Others enter the dating scene prematurely in an attempt to find the person (or persons) that make the emptiness less noticeable. When an abyss opens within a relationship, some look elsewhere to fill themselves and others may decide that the addition of a child will top off the cavity.

It’s a natural urge. We want to fill ourselves up so that the loss is no longer so conspicuous. We want to distract ourselves with the new in an attempt to forget the old or in an effort to ignore the broken. We want to rush through the heartbreak into a new beginning. We want to feel good and we want to forget that good is not a permanent state.

Yet there is purpose in spending time in mourning. There is a benefit to sitting with the pain for some time. Just as there is a season between autumn and spring, we need some time to simply be with the discomfort and the yearning.

It is a space where what was can be remembered and honored. It is a reminder that all things have a beginning and an end. It is an opportunity to reconnect with yourself and with what is important as you take inventory of what is around you. And perhaps most importantly, it is a place where the power of gratitude – for what was, what is and what can be – is boundless.

As for Brock and I, we will absolutely be welcoming a new puppy (or two!) into our home  at some point. But before we do, we need to make sure that we’re at a place where we are moving from a desire to bring in new life, not from an attempt to displace the pain we feel now. We need to fully grieve our Tiger so that a new dog is not tasked with the impossible job of filling his shoes. And we need to take this time to reflect on all that Tiger brought to us and honor his memory and spirit.

Meanwhile, I need to be careful around PetSmart…

 

 

Lessons From the Hardest Goodbye

Posted on by stilllearning2b

He was never just a dog.

He had the wise eyes and gentle spirit of a Buddhist monk wrapped within the playful guise of a spirited perpetual puppy.  His motivation was never food or treats, he seemed to want nothing more than to bring smiles to everyone he ever met.

And he did.

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After even the briefest of encounters, people would be changed from their interaction with Tiger. He convinced dog-haters to pet him, inspired those afraid of pit bulls to reconsider their stance, and brought laughter and love to so many. He was the dog of a lifetime –  a true companion, friend and family member.

A mere twelve hours after the first symptoms of illness appeared, Brock and I had to kiss our buddy goodbye last Thursday.

And now, with his sudden and premature loss, we are struggling to find the gratitude through the grief and the smiles through the tears. We share pictures and silly stories of him while holding tightly to blankets that still hold the musky scent of his fur. The house is too quiet. We feel it most acutely coming home, when the window is empty and the sounds of nails on the wood floor are agonizingly absent. We feel it at night, when his snores no longer provide the comforting white noise in the background. We feel it when we see other dogs, unable to resist cuddling with them as though they hold some sort of portal back to our boy. And we feel it our hearts, that unmistakable ache and hollowed-out feeling that follows loss.

Because our beloved Tiger was so much more than just a dog. He’s been a confidant, a teacher and a sage for both of us throughout our entire relationship.

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Love means letting go of the fear of loss.

I first met Tiger after Brock and I had gone on two dates. After several weeks of limited contact, Brock sent me a picture of the puppy he had just rescued. I was immediately smitten.

At that time, I was still acutely feeling the pain from the demise of my first marriage and the unwanted transfer of my three dogs. I was guarded. Walled off, afraid of being hurt again.

And then I met Tiger. He ignored the downtrodden slant to my shoulders, the desperate aloofness behind my eyes. He simply climbed onto me as I knelt down to greet him, and covered my face in welcoming kisses.

It soon became clear that resistance to his charms was futile. I tried not to get too attached, uncertain as to the trajectory of this nascent relationship, but my attempts were simply met with more acceptance and more kisses. He seemed to be telling me, “Come on already. There’s life to live and love to share. Let’s get to it!”

And who was I to say no to such a wise creature?

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Tiger Story #1 – I brought Tiger to the park to keep me company while I graded papers. We were both stretched out on a blanket when a mom approached with her two kids – ages 5 and 2. She asked if they could pet Tiger and as soon as I answered in the affirmative, the older boy began rubbing on the dog and gleefully giggling as Tiger’s tongue tousled his hair. Nervous of the dog that was over twice his size, the toddler held back. Noticing the young boy, Tiger rolled to his flank, reducing his profile so as to make himself appear smaller, and slowly reached out one paw to the hesitant child. He always seem to intuit the needs and emotions of those around him.

 

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Trust comes from letting go of the leash.

Brock is a bit of a dog whisperer. From the beginning, he began training Tiger to be obedient and dependable.

And Tiger began training me how to trust.

He began slowly. He seemed to sense that I was nervous about walking an enormous – and enormously powerful – pit bull on my own on crowded sidewalks and trails. I soon learned that when I was uncertain, he became more anxious. When I was calm and trusting, he behaved amazingly. I learned how to release my grip and relax.

This lesson extended off the trails for me. I learned that trying to control everything was ultimately a losing battle. I began to understand the relationship between the energy I put out and the results I drew back in. Through Tiger, I believed that I could let go and things could still be okay.

Tiger Story #2 –  With his job, Brock receives frequent deliveries of packages. Tiger soon began to view the UPS man as his friend who, from his perspective, dropped by the house a few times a weeks to deliver head scratches and butt rubs. One day, the UPS driver was a few blocks away from the house when suddenly he notices a large pit bull, huge grin of his face, walking from the back of the truck up to the cab. Tiger had decided to join his buddy for an impromptu ride.

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Happiness comes from delivering joy.

I’ve never met a happier dog than Tiger. And I’ve never met one that brought smiles so readily to others. When boarded at the vet, he was frequently allowed to hang out with the receptionist instead of back in the kennels. When his head was hanging out the car window, traffic would slow and people would exclaim over his goofy grin and hanging tongue. At parties, he was always the center of attention and at the dog park, he would always draw a crowd.

He seemed to believe that his mission in life was to bring happiness to others. He was always so open, so enthusiastic, that he immediately put people at ease. He was so silly, always ready to put on a show and entertain, often seemingly laughing at himself in the process.

Brock had a beautiful idea yesterday. We were having a hard morning, missing our boy, when Brock suddenly said, “Come on. Get up. We’re going to take doughnuts to the vet’s office. They were always so good to him.” He then continued, “Whenever we feel ourselves getting down about Tiger, we need to do something to make somebody else smile. Because that’s what he did – shared love and laughter with others.”

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Tiger Story #3 – We were on one of our many family hikes when we encountered a large hiking group (60+ members) walking the opposite way on a narrow trail. We stepped off to the side to allow them to pass. Tiger thought that it was the best thing ever as, one at a time, over five dozen people bent down to greet him. Ever since then, he always seemed a little let down when he didn’t have the doggy equivalent of the paparazzi following him on walks. And I bet those people were a little let down that they never met another Tiger.

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There’s so much more I want to say about this amazing dog, but I’m finding it so hard to put thoughts together right now and no words feel adequate. He brought Brock and I together, taught us both how to love and now we’re trying to figure out how to be without him years before we thought we would have to. I feel so empty, yet also so unbelievably grateful that he chose me to be his momma. He was a beacon of joy, an example of the power of acceptance and living in the moment and such a loving soul.

He’s helped me. He’s inspired me. He’s calmed me and kept me company. He’s brought me so many smiles and snuggles and kisses. And, because of him, I have the love of my life.

To Tiger – May we all meet a spirit like him and strive to carry his lessons forward.

I miss you, buddy. Thank you for blessing me with the gift of your years. You will be in our hearts forever.

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My Lesson From the Blue Zone

Posted on by stilllearning2b

This morning, as I was dicing fresh ginger and tumeric for a chickpea curry, I was transported back to a semi-cultivated garden I toured a couple weeks ago in Costa Rica. As we trekked through the plot on our way to a waterfall, the guides would point out interesting plants and invite us to taste the fruits and roots of what we encountered. It seemed that each description included the healing properties of the plants and it was this I was fondly remembering as I compared my small, rinsed tubers this morning with the muddy and generous roots from Costa Rica that seemed to grow with such wild abandon.   Maybe by ingesting these roots I could summon up a little of that pura vida that I feel like I left back in the jungle.

The region of Costa Rica that I visited, the Nicola Peninsula, is one of five so-called Blue Zones in the world, regions that are characterized by widespread well-being and prolonged lifespans. Research has identified the commonalities of these five, very different, zones: plant-based diets, plentiful movement, strong social connections, and moderate alcohol intake are shared traits of these happy and long-lived cultures.

Based on my experience in Costa Rica, I think there is another, less tangible, characteristic.

Acceptance.

A major storm devastated the area mere days before our scheduled arrival. Even after we were assured that the roads were passable and the resort was open for business, I feared the worst.

I need not have worried.

Although the destruction was evident in the flooded yards, potholed roads and washed-away concrete along bridges, the atmosphere was one of lighthearted determination, as people rallied to rebuild the infrastructure before the start of the official high season for tourism.

When asked, the people would speak about the enormity of this flood as compared to the usual deluges of the rainy season. They would describe what was lost and recount some of the more tragic stories. Yet in every retelling, I noticed that something was absent – there was no attachment to the story, no woe-is-me coming through in the tone. The destruction just was. It was a fact, something to be quickly accepted so that the work could begin.

The inhabitants of this peninsula have frequent training in the power of acceptance. Every year, the torrential rains wash away and the dry season scorches. Seismic activity reconfigures waterways and roadways and even reduces concrete to rubble. The wildlife frequently reminds the people that they are merely visitors, as evidenced by a matter-of-fact recounting from a woman about her dog being snatched off its leash by a crocodile.

Our resort had an amazing coffee and juice bar that seemed to be the local equivalent of a Starbucks, where people would bring their laptops and textbooks to work in a communal environment. Only in this coffee shop, the Wi-Fi was anything but a given, as the internet seemed as tempermental as a teenager. And when service was disconnected, the locals seemed to take that as a sign to simply relax for a few minutes or even an entire afternoon.

This attitude of acceptance permeated everything. The country is often described as “laid-back,” but that implies a sense of laziness that is certainly not evident. Instead, the people don’t waste their mental energy on “what ifs” and “why mes.” They reserve their energy and attention for appreciation of what they have and to shape those things they can change.

Pura vida, indeed, and a lesson we can all strive to be better at no matter where in world we reside.

 

The Problem With Always Being “The Strong One”

Posted on by stilllearning2b
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On Wednesday, I taught the wrong lesson to my 6th grade classes. And then on Thursday, I somehow lost the lesson I had previously prepared for my 8th grade classes. Friday was blessedly uneventful and then on Saturday, I walked into my yoga studio without any of my yoga gear.

None of this is like me. I’m always the Type A, super-planned and over-prepared type of person. My yoga bag, that I’ve never forgotten before, has two of everything. You know, just in case.  I’m the one that acted as a reminder and an alarm clock for friends and family before phones evolved to provide those services. My brain usually attends to details and dates without a problem. Both professionally and personally, I’m seen as the dependable, responsible and has-her-stuff together one.

But right now, that’s not the case.

Luckily, I’m not having trouble because of anything bad. I’m just struggling to handle too much. Yet in some ways, the results are similar. I’m having a hard time and, because I’m typecast as “the strong one,” I don’t always feel like I’m allowed to have a hard time.

I see this dynamic so often in single parents as they appear to balance it all during the day, only to collapse in tears behind the privacy of the closed bedroom door at night. They have no choice but to be strong – to keep it together for their children, even as they feel like they’re falling apart.

On the one hand, it feels good to be deemed strong, it means you’re independent, determined and resourceful. On the other hand, the moniker often brings with it an additional burden.

Because when you’re always the “strong one,”

You don’t feel like you’re allowed to break down.

When you’re always told that you’re strong or that you have it together, you don’t feel like you’re given permission to be any other way. You may be  told that you put this pressure on yourself, but the labels also promote this pressure. The expectations are there, you can uphold them or dash them.

You help others even when you need help.

When you’re the strong one, others depend upon you. Your own hardships get sublimated or postponed in your efforts to support others. Sometimes, this can be a blessing, because you’re not able to wallow when you’re busy lending a helping hand. Yet other times, you push yourself to exhaustion because you don’t give yourself permission to take a break.

You feel like you have to maintain the image.

When you’re the strong one, others look to you to learn how to push through. And you don’t want to let them down. Once you’ve assumed that role, it’s hard to take a break from its demands. And if you’re modeling fortitude for your children, it’s even harder to admit that sometimes you simply can’t do it.

People minimize your struggles.

“Oh, you’ve got this,” your friend breezily says as you try to confide your growing panic. When others perceive you as indomitable, they have a hard time believing that you are really fighting to keep it together. Your complaints are brushed aside or excused with a pat response, leaving you feeling like you have to do this alone.

You don’t know how to ask for help. 

You’re not accustomed to asking for help, so you ask quietly, or obtusely. Since you’re the one others turn to, you don’t know where to go now that you need support. You know that it’s okay to ask for help, but you still grapple with truly believing it.

 

All of us have time when we are the strong ones and time when we need to rely on the strengths of others. There is no need to be typecast in one role or the other, we can all move fluidly between the two positions.

One of the gifts I received from my divorce was the shattering of my lifelong “strong one” title and the need to learn to accept help. Even in my weakened state, I learned that people didn’t think less of me because I couldn’t do it all. In fact, I think, if anything, my increased vulnerability made me even closer with others.

Because all of us have times of strength and times of need.

It’s okay to embrace your role as the strong one.

And it’s also okay to let it go.

 

 

 

 

 

Turning Back the Clocks

Posted on by stilllearning2b

My social media feeds this morning have been filled with various iterations of the following:

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The meme made me think. If I could turn back the clock to twenty, would I want to?

My immediate (and powerful) reaction was hell, no.

I had a specific image of twenty come to mind. I was in the living room of the apartment that I shared with my now-ex. The generous space was only furnished with a cheap couch from Montgomery Ward and a large, black, hand-me-down trunk that was serving as a television stand. It was shabby and yet I had such pride in the space because it was mine.

It was a Sunday, and so I was home just after 6:00 pm from my job as the manager of a tanning salon. I was grabbing a quick bite to eat before tackling an assignment for one of my classes (which was always frustrating because this professor used an online platform for submission and our dial-up internet often wasn’t up to the task).

While eating, my then-boyfriend came through the door. As always when he returned from his work at Sea World, our pug pressed her nose into every inch of his uniform, inhaling the delicious (to her) smells of sweat, oil and fish. He soon stripped off his uniform and headed to the shower while I headed to the home office to begin my assignment.

We were in limbo that year. His job offered no opportunity for advanced, he found the work un-stimulating and the wages were not sufficient to provide for any real future. He didn’t have much direction, but knew that we would most likely have to leave San Antonio in order for him to secure something better in his field.

Meanwhile, I had already given up on my first degree choice and was weighing options for a second choice while I completed the basic requirements. I hesitated to make any firm decisions, waiting instead to see where his job would take us.

Yes, in some ways life was easier then. Having little in terms of income or possessions meant there was little to lose. I had the certainty only found in the young that my boyfriend would always be by my side. I was drifting, but also not too worried about it because time seemed to stretch out in front of me like an endless Texas highway.

But I still wouldn’t want to go back.

Because I am grateful for every experience I’ve since then, either because I enjoyed it in the moment or because that event imbued me with wisdom and perspective. And even though I would love to have the smooth skin of twenty again or the ability to recover easily from a late night, I would much rather have the more wrinkled and tired version of myself that I am now. Because this is the person that my twenty-year-old self was waiting to find.

How about you? Would you want to turn back the clock? If so, to what age?