Songs Without Words - September 2013

For this month I thought I would give you (and myself!) a break from my monthly rants, and just show you a few photos. Isn't that good? :)  I was pretty busy in September with various non-Pond photographic pursuits (some of which will hopefully make me a better Pond photographer) and honestly I didn't have the 'fire in the belly' that I usually have when posting time rolled around. What felt right was just to give you a hint of our September pond, so I decided to go with my gut. I hope you like these!

 

 

 

 

    

 

As you can see, we were graced with a beautiful September! I am already planning a full rant for October, so please stay tuned. :) 

The Cycle of Life - August 2013

Many folks will remember August 2013 as a welcome change from the intense heat and humidity of July. There was an ease to the month down the pond: many young birds had grown through the vulnerable nestling period into fledglings, flowers were fast turning to berries, and the water lilies down back made our pond seem as still and serene as a painting. Most folks will remember August that way.

Many of you know that during August I lost my beloved Lucy, an18 year old bichon frise, who was my dear friend and constant companion for 12 years. She was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, with a sweet and comic and feisty spirit that shone out of her. So for me this month will never mean the fine weather, nor the almost imperceptible shift in the arc the pond travels as we head towards September.  To me August 2013 will always mark the end of a long and beautiful friendship, the end of my time (for now) as a dog owner and care-giver, and the end of what I declared early on this year would be a "Lucy summer".  Over the spring Lucy had been having more and more problems, and I sensed that our time together was growing short. So for the summer I decided that I would cut back on much-needed major yard projects, nonessential chores, and long nights at the computer. Instead Lucy and I lounged on the steps after work, we took slow ambles into "her" garden, we sprawled on the sofa and watched TV,  I sang to her and told her what a beautiful and good dog she was.  I spoiled her as much as possible - anything she would eat that would not harm her I would give her, including half of my breakfast if she was in the mood. She got to sleep where ever she wanted (even on a pillow under the dog mom's nightstand), the A/C was on whenever I think it would make her more comfortable (which meant most of July).  My life revolved around her and her schedule: she was my little white sun.  I took even more photos of her but never could seem to do her justice, she was like a flickering flame. She and her sister Annie changed my life forever when they arrived, and with Lucy's passing (Annie died  back in 2011) my life has changed forever again.

Watching a loved one failing (whether two legged or four) is never easy, but I managed to mostly stay present with her this summer. When Annie was dying a few years ago I learned from an article how  'anticipatory grieving' can rob us of precious moments with our failing loved ones before they had even passed on. So this summer, although I got upset with Lucy's alarming lab reports or when she had spells of not eating, I tried to balance that with staying present to the time I still had with her. Sometimes I would talk to her, letting her know that when it was her time, that was OK, I would help her feel better as much as I could but when it was her time, I understood.

Toward the end it was hard. Sitting on the floor with her, trying in vain to coax her to eat one of the 5 cans of dog food (or steak, or pizza, or eggs) I was trying that day. Despairing when she started to refuse even her favorite special treats. Staying up long nights with her when she was agitated, and carrying her up and down the stairs as her back legs got unstable. My wonderful vet and I were running out of ways to help her feel better and we both knew it. 

Down the pond I saw many predators in early August. To my mind, the pond was being kind, reminding me that death is part of the cycle of life. Frank Waters speaks of it in The Man Who Killed The Deer:

"We know that we are all one life on the same Mother Earth, beneath the same plains of the sky. But we also know that one life must give way to another so that the one great life of all may continue unbroken". 

We all are part of that circle. Like it or not. So the fierce heron caught a mouse, the osprey flew with a fish in its talons, the black crowned night heron narrowly missed a big meal. And Lucy's ashes, and Annie's and mine, some day will mingle with the muck of the pond, providing nutrients for the plants, to feed the fish, and to nourish the heron, the osprey and other pond life.

That day, we sat on the couch and I  told her how so many people loved her, and me most of all. I sang her songs to her. People heard the news and stopped by. Two close friends accompanied us.  My vet was as skilled and kind as always and Lucy's end was quick and painless and released her from suffering.  Aaron had told me that he would mind my Annie in Heaven for me, and now Lucy has joined her sister under the watchful eye of my dear friend, until at some point I will join them. I know atheists are probably not supposed to believe in Heaven but if there is any sort of Heaven, I'm sure that dogs are there.

Lucy does visit now and again - my little white sun has become my little white ghost. She waits patiently behind me while I'm immersed in work at my desk, surprising me with her quick disappearance just as a I turn around. She cautions me to step lightly and shuffle a bit if I get up during the night in case she's sleeping by the bed. She reminds me that I have been away almost too long and it's time to come home and let her out. She lies beside me on the couch  and rests her little head on my thigh as I fall asleep reading, but as my hand glides down to pat her she slips away.  Is it a merciful part of mourning, that we don't lose the loved one all at once, but little by little,  in increments over time? The turning of the wheel until loss is a fine and uniform dust that we breathe until every cell knows what happened. Lots of love. Lots of cells. It will take time.

I console myself that so many things I had worried about and tried to protect her from her whole life did not happen. My little pup did not suffer a long and painful death. She never got lost and scared and torn apart by coyotes or hit by a car. She lived a good and long and from what I could see a happy life.  It was my honor and  privilege to be her guardian angel. We all need them, and some of you reading this have strapped on your wings for me, both during Lucy's illness and afterwards. Down the pond my angels are there too, wingless and winged, and continue to help carry me through. All you morning dog walkers who cried with me and related your own stories remind me that we all go through loss. The wise Brene Brown says that the realization and reminders that others have survived a similar suffering produces a certain kind of  'resilience' that helps one process life's challenges, so your morning-fresh faces continue to help me through. 

The second part of August I did walk the pond, but honestly most of what I remember is feeling numb and lost with a big bag of rocks in my stomach.  But my photo files rekindle memories: the slant of the late summer sun, the long lasting Queen Anne's Lace like kaleidoscopes of stars on spindly stalks. And I remember the pond carrying on with its story in a more hopeful way - the big group of adolescent waxwings that took up residence on the causeway during the second part of August,  the fledgling goldfinches posed on the late summer flowers, the cygnet gliding between his powerful parents. Death is part of the cycle of life, but so is birth and each being's precious slice of survival.

Lucy was a big part of my life and was the best part of my life. Now I am like a tightrope walker who lost half her balance stick, and for a while I will be awkward and shaky ( I know some of you have seen this), as I find a new balance point. And I will find it for, although Lucy was the best thing in my life, there are other good things: friends call, music plays, there is joy in movement, and comfort in memory. Down the pond, little by little I start to take joy again in what I see. The heron guards sleeping ducks in the early light. The pond reflects the water station in the setting sun. In the January blog I wrote "And when bad things do happen, perhaps during those sad times the pond can console us with its constancy inside the promise of something new, around the bend, when we are ready."  And so it does. Beauty waits around the corner, and starts to peek out of the shadows, as I am ready.