traveler

Today I miss Traveler.
My dear golden friend who passed away in February.
He taught me how to love. How to open my heart and let my life be something I never thought it would be.
Me. Someone who was just a little afraid of dogs. Suddenly "I am rescuing a golden." I knew that something had to shift. He was the catalyst.
A woman from the rescue called and said she had read my application and that Traveler had found his forever home.
He helped me to create space in my heart. Space to love and know that I could be loved. Unconditionally. Space to learn to love myself. Space for J. to come into my life.
I miss how he would jump up on the bed with me every morning. J. would take him out while I stayed in bed. Then after eating, Trav would climb up into bed with me and curl up in the crook of my bent knees. He would rest his head on my leg and sigh. I miss that.
This time last year we were doing everything we could to fight cancer. My grandparents were both sick - my grandfather with cancer and my grandmother was becoming ill. A dear friend was diagnosed with cancer. Then another friend. Then another. Then Traveler wasn't feeling well and I sat there in total bewilderment when they said that he had cancer too. It seemed beyond unfair. And the only thing I could control was that we would do all that we could for him. To cure him. To make his life a little better.
But he passed away. And in a way I know he gave me a gift. I started to grieve. I had glimpsed grief so that when my grandmother died I had some frame of reference. Some understanding of the crazy, empty, irrational, heart-slowing feeling that the death of someone creates.

And yes we have another golden child. Millie. Another rescue dog. With a little more baggage (so she fits right in). I am learning from her as well. Sometimes she jumps up on the bed and rests her head on my leg and sighs. And it feels like all might be right in the world for that brief moment.

But I can't help but wish that J. would come home one day and say "hey, look who was outside in the backyard." And there would stand Traveler, squeaker toy at his feet, ready to play.

(a thank you to Maureen for writing such a beautiful post about her dog Sam - encouraged me to spend some time with Trav's memory today)

turn the handle

Breathe in. Open the front of the body. Let your chest open. Your heart lift.
Sometimes it feels like the heart cracks a bit.
Breathe out. Do not be afraid.
This may be something new for the heart. Being asked to open. It may take some time for it to understand what is happening. To realize that you are calling for it. Do not stop.
Breathe in. Open up. Even more.
Breathe out. Let the mind rest in the space the breath creates.

As the mind rests, you begin to hear the heart. Listen as it whispers.
You may hear your true Self. It may be something greater than the stuff that fills your mind and distracts.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Give yourself permission to open the door to your heart. Then just listen.

Do not be afraid.

a good attachment

When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.
John Muir

(photo: teton national park, august 20, 05, canon digital rebel)

honey

She was our guest for Thanksgiving dinner. Her wise words filled the air as we ate turkey, mashed potatoes, creamed corn. She taught me how to make gravy using corn starch (no lumps). She said that her mother made creamed corn the same way I do. I said my grandmother taught me. Now I know my grandmother's mother started making it this way during the Depression. "Saltines stretch the amount" she said. She would know. She is my grandmother's sister. They called her Honey as a child. So I call her Aunt Honey.

She sounds like my grandmother when she laughs. When I let my eyes rest as I look at her, I see how they look alike. Their features are similar. She looks how my grandmother would have looked in a few more years.

I knew she lived nearby when I moved out here, but I hadn't seen her since I was little so I was hesitant to connect. A great-aunt seems like she will be "old." How wrong I was. She defines young at heart. She is incredible. At 86 she still lives alone. Gardens. Takes care of herself. Follows politics and the stock market. And she shares what she has learned. We connected right after my grandmother passed away. Cried together. Shared stories.

I have been given quite the gift in her friendship. A blessing in the midst of grief.

happy to be home

Happy to be home. Even though I am sick (again).

Lucky to have such a wonderful husband who takes care of me when I am sick (again).

Relieved that the trip home did not include a cancelled flight and a bus ride like the trip there did.

Thankful to be sleeping. A lot. I do not get enough sleep when I visit family (and I guess I need some emotional, physical rest after a trip to see them).

Grateful to have spent a day with wonderful friends and to have reconnected with someone from long ago.

Excited to have stopped by to see my pre-school teacher, Mrs. Lewis. She still teaches the three year olds, in the same room. Oh that voice. It was like no time had passed. I love that woman.

And blessed, truly blessed, to have had a really great little moment with my father. I have come to a place in my life where I have really been able to separate my expectations/dreams of what my relationship with him could be from the reality. And I am able to see that he does the best he can, even though I know I wish for a deeper relationship with him. Because I have let go of these expectations, I have been able to let go of the moments when he is not such a great father or when he says/does things I don't agree with or support. I know that his behavior is not about me; it is about him. And even more important, in the last two years, I have been able to be present in the moments when he truly is a father. Sunday night when I came back to his house to spend the night, I was starting to get really sick. He had made homemade soup and heated some up for me. I was sitting at his kitchen table, and he brought me a corn muffin to go with the soup. Then without saying anything he sliced it in half and buttered it for me. In that split second, I was a little girl, his little girl, who was sick, and he was doing what he could to help me feel better. I sat there in awe. I can't remember the last time I felt like he was my dad and not just a friend. My daddy. It was truly a blessing to remember.

Happy to be home.