Two summers ago my son, lost his best friend. They were 12 and had both dealt with childhood illness their entire lives. Young kids, like dogs, have a lot to teach us about death. Being by his side in the weeks of her dying, taught me so much about how to be open to it all. How to put down the shield of my softened heart and let it all seep fully in. The death, yes, but also the tender beauty, the community, the love that makes it all hurt so much in the first place. When I got the call that the end was nearing he begged me to take him to her. He wanted to do right into it. For her. I got him from school and drove the three hours to the children’s hospital where she was, thankful that the doctors agreed to allow him into the ICU to see her. He wasn’t afraid. He touched her and talked to her. The final goodbye would come the following week when he shared words of what she meant to him, over zoom in the last minutes of her precious young life. In the coming weeks as he moved through his days, attended her funeral, planted her a tree, wrapped himself in a blanket given to him by her during one of his hospital stays, he talked not so much about death, but much more about love. The love over-road all else for him. It was deeply sad, but deeply beautiful.
The largest loss in my life was that of my mother passing when I was 23 years-old. The waves of grief felt tremendous, often unbearable,- especially in the company of those who were closest to mother. The empathy-sponge of my emotional makeup could not bear their pain, while contending with my own. Six months later, on my 24th birthday, I was hiking near a small quarry on rather grey day. Sitting down on a rock, I looked at the water then up at the sky. Beautiful light started pouring from a small circle in the sky and a flock of seagulls appeared in the light. My mother had jokingly said if she ever came back to this world, she would like to come back as a bird. The message seemed clear, - look towards the light, - you will find what you need. I've been so fortunate to have mother figures drop into my young life when I needed them. Having a Mary Poppins ("practically perfect in every way!") mother-in-law seemed a gift from the heavens. Years ago, a buddhist friend made me aware of the "the wanting mind." I make an effort to keep the desires and cravings in check, and feel grateful, when the unexpected delights, and wonderful people come into my life.
Write about a time when something you loved and lost returned in a different form.
We adopted a German Shepherd/Mastiff mix pup when my 1st two girls were little. We named him Toby. He was a big boy, and very handsome, soft, goofy and lovable. He was full grown when my 3rd daughter was born and she really bonded with him. They would curl up together on the floor, snuggly and blissful. I would invite Toby to come up into my lap (I have a generous lap) and he would try his best to fit all of his 75 lbs on me, inevitably leaving his hind or front legs hanging. I would stroke him and hug him and whisper to him "in your next life you will come back as a lap dog so you can get all the cuddles you want". Time passed, as it does, and Toby grew old and eventually passed away, leaving a big hole in our lives. At that time I was going through my divorce from my children's father. Fast forward a couple of years later, after my older girls graduated high school, I relocated to North Carolina with my youngest. She was only 11 and the move was tough on her. She missed her sisters and our noisy house, always full of teenagers and visiting friends. We moved to a home in the mountains on six quiet acres, complete with a pasture, a rushing creek and a bridge. One day, while driving down the winding road that led down the mountain to town, we rounded a bend and saw some white fluff trotting along the side of the road. It was a furry little dog! What was she doing on a mountain road? We pulled over and, of course, she jumped right into our car, obviously afraid. Dirty, with matted long hair, she was lactating. Where were her puppies? We spent the next week going door to door on that mountain road, hanging up posters at local vet offices to no avail. We couldn't believe that this sweet little 8 lb. dog was all alone in this world. No one stepped forward to claim her! As she settled into her new life with us (we named her Mu), I realized that this was our Toby, reincarnated as a cuddly, fluffy lap dog, back in our lives to comfort Isabella once again. The two of them were inseparable. Mu will be 14 in May (we made up a birthday for her based on the vet's estimation of her age). She is as brave and faithful as ever, larger than life in that 8 lb little body of hers, at her happiest cuddling up in our laps.
I was very sick with panic attacks and agoraphobia in the early 90’s. This is the result of violent beatings I received from my biological mother when I was 7 years old. I hated who I was from 7 on. I needed a caregiver while so sick. A caregiver came named Nancy who was to stay 2 weeks and stayed 10 years. She became my surrogate mother and I her surrogate daughter. Nancy when little was beaten, called the N word and saw lynchings. She and I gave one another the love and appreciation we both had never received in our own families. Nancy died two years after she stopped caregiving in my home. She died from Alzheimer’s. Our love was so strong and powerful that after she died I slowly turned from self hating Sherri to loving, kind and happy Sherri. The old Sherri is still present in my inner child, but I take such lovingly good care of her. “Nancy we loved each other so”!
Your framing of Oscar’s death reminded me of the one comforting thought I had during the dark first weeks after losing my dad. It’s a dark thought but was my only way of making sense of his death. My daughter was 14 then and her mortality was always on my mind because she has cystic fibrosis and a close friend of mine lost her daughter to the same disease just the year before, which left us all reeling. When my dad died, my only consolation was that now my daughter had someone she loved and felt safe with waiting for her on the other side. That if I lost her too she wouldn’t be scared or alone. Pretty bleak consolation, I know, but it got me through. That thought shifted later to comfort knowing he was watching out for her. I still believe he watches out for her. That was 13 years ago and she’s on a drug now that has eased my fears of losing her too soon.
I wanted to be a mother so desperately as a single 40 year old, that I unsuccessfully underwent IVF. The child that almost was, was a boy- they were able to tell me that much when they told me it had failed. But years later I had the honor of becoming step mother to the most incredible young boy in the world. It was quite accidental as I hadn’t intended to date or marry someone who had children at the time. Sometimes I think that had I not lost that one boy, I may never have gotten to be stepmother to my incredible son. He is truly the greatest kid, and I am tremendously lucky.
I love the Kafka story, how he nursed her along until her strength was her own. Thank you as always, my Sunday morning ritual of going here first …with the sun rising…..in the quiet of the household, always a gift to open Suleika’s prompt! 👌❤️
As a child the silent somewhat bulky presence of a piano always captured my attention. There was a piano in our family house, in the livingroom, holding its own, no matter what went on in our family life. Amazing to me, now, to recall that piano and how much space it occupied. It was truly a grand piano, stretching out its full body.
As a child I did not appreciate piano lessons and practice time; I’d rather be outside tossing a ball to a friend. However, when my mother sat at the piano, playing and singing, doing both so well, joy seemed to enter our house. She truly “played her heart out”, gave it full reign, and she sparkled with delight. I enjoyed stepping up to the piano’s side and singing along with her. This also happened at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s father would sit at his piano and suddenly he sparkled and came fully alive. This was the only time I saw my grandfather full of joyful energy. So, was it the piano I “wanted” or the aura of happiness and playful energy that took hold of these two people?
These days there is no piano in my living space. There are many flutes. On the rare occasion that I meet a piano somewhere out in the world I still feel the magic that took over my mother and grandfather. I will reverently sit on the piano bench, touch a few keys, and I am transported to a special inner sanctum of joy and delight. I never learned to read music. Each moment with any musical instrument, especially a piano, is improvised, fresh, and delightful. In that moment I join hands with my mother and grandfather, our hearts meet in a secret place, and we celebrate our delight in living.
These days flutes take my breath away and ignite my heart. I zoom via computer into children’s hospitals and senior citizen homes and joyously share the music of my heart. Music is a mysterious thread that still connects me to my mother and grandfather, their delight at the piano, and creative joys. The instrument has changed. The energy that enlivened my mother and grandfather as they tickled those keys now takes hold of me as I take a deep breath and journey with a flute into a sanctuary of sound. 🏮
I haven’t seen my son for 31 years. A searing loss which continued year after year from the day he left at 17 vowing I would never see him again. And so far he has kept his promise. And I have kept mine. To remain open to a reunion. Of understanding and overcoming the difference which can so dramatically divide us. It’s not so much the work of imagination for me but the willingness to show up for children not my own. Who have become my own. Go where the love is as the saying goes. And I have. I always will. Despite the losses.
The day after my daughter, age 23, was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer John Denver died in a plane crash. John’s music had been a huge part of the sound track for our family story. I turned to my husband and asked, “Do you think John died so Sara can live?” His response, “It doesn’t work that way.” “Poems, Prayers and Promises”, became Sara’s theme song when the cancer treatments could no longer sustain her life on Earth. She sang the lyrics with a heart felt resonance - a knowing - that brought her peace during the time she grew to accept she was leaving us all behind. Like Kafka’s Doll she was going on an adventure that none of us had yet travelled. It was a bittersweet moment listening to her sing, 🎶”it’s been a good life all in all…🎶 Letting her go was beyond any pain I had experienced in my life. Part of me died that day, 24 years ago. It feels like just yesterday. Yet, when I listen to John Denver’s beautiful haunting lyrics today, I hear Sara’s voice singing inside of me - making me smile with the thousands of warm memories
we shared during the 26 years we lived together. This song brought Sara comfort while she lived, the memory of her singing it brings comfort to me to this day. Holding sorrow and joy in one palm is possible. I look forward to Suleika and Susan Cain’s chat today. They are the Masters of the Bittersweet Universe. And, I have much to learn.
I lost my dog Annie to cancer at six-years-old. She was a very silly bearded collie and I loved her fiercely. A few days after her death I was sitting on the lawn in the sun pulling weeds out of a flower patch in my backyard thinking about her...missing her. A cat jumped down from the fence and strolled over to me. She began nuzzling my hand. I had never had a cat in my yard in the decade I had lived there, and I told myself she was sent by Annie to bring me comfort.
I lost my smile on March 15, 2021. I loved my smile so much, wide and bright, and Bell's Palsy took it away overnight. I had been warned over the weekend but didn't connect the dots until I woke up that seismic Monday with mouthwash drooling down the right side of my mouth that I realized the burnt feeling on the right side of my tongue on Saturday, (that I shrugged off as an allergy because I had been buying plants that morning), and the excruciating pain on my right ear down to my jaw on Sunday (that I dismissed as biting down too hard in my sleep), had both been red alerts of what I was going to lose. I was told my smile would return in a few weeks. Indeed, that smile that ‘went on a trip to see the world’ did return, and indeed, ‘her travels changed her’. Today, almost three years later, it's not as crooked as it first appeared on my bathroom mirror that Ides of March morning and it is loved and accepted as the catalyst her owner desperately needed to fulfill a decisive life journey. Sometimes, like now that I am writing this and realize of how far I've also traveled, I am grateful. Other times, when I relapse into anger and frustration, I am despondent and depressed. Nevertheless, I am also grateful for those overcast days. Nothing says ‘now it's time for a commercial break we'll be back in a few’ like dark clouds. So I've also learned to love a pause and just be with what I've got.
I had a kitty that died in a terrible accident that I caused. That moment is forever imprinted as I loved my kitty so much. She was so young, joyful and followed me for the short time we were together. Following me was her demise -- and-- from then I hoped --and -- missed--although I loved Skyra. It was a long time after that I saw a picture of Olympia a Lynx Siamese kitten who had a failure to thrive. She was being fed goats milk and chicken. I knew she was the one, and I applied to adopt. My application was accepted. Olympia arrived with her toys and a wonderful foster Mum. I know it was right--she was here the kitten I lost another opportunity to love. Nine years have gone by and I thank her every day-for the love---
This was, quite possibly, THE perfect piece. As a self-proclaimed dog nerd of the highest order, I don't know a love greater than that of the love for my dogs. And I do not know a greater love than that of my dogs for me. I lost my heart dog, Packer (chocolate lab), when he was 14.5 years old. I'd had him from the very beginning. It was about five years ago now, and I still miss him just about every day. But the intense pain of his loss has been replaced - by a gentler sadness, accompanied by the best memories of him. Not to mention all that he taught me. He was the first dog that was truly mine (we had dogs growing up, but owning a dog on my own was completely different), and he showed me the meaning of unconditional love, the power of simply lying in the sun and enjoying the moment before you. He showed me how to love without judgement and live without worry. He taught me about the importance of living in the moment and so very, very much more. He gave me so much in the course of his 14.5 years, and he continues to remind me of those lessons years after he's gone. I now have two black labs (Phinley - 7 and Wrigley - 4) and they fill my heart with so much. They continue to teach me about love, about patience, about being present. I am so lucky to be their human.
This story from Susan Cain's book was wonderful, beautiful, and an important reminder. Of the kindness we can give, and the power of love - even when transformed.
Thank you so very much for once again sharing something so meaningful, so powerful...You are so very appreciated.
Sometimes, our biggest protectors come in a form of the smallest, speechless creatures with hearts so big that could barely fit their tiny bodies <3
One of the most heartbreaking pieces. I am happy that you and Oscar met, I wish for everyone to have such fierce protector as you had.
I keep reading this all over again this part and tears are streaming down my face:
“As I read about the timing of Oscar’s departure, and the conditions under which it came to pass, I cannot help but think that little Oscar was perhaps doing the same for his beloved Susu, to aid in her healing.”
Ethanol, gasoline, petrol, more commonly known as alcohol! That is what went away for me six years ago. No dramatic rock bottom, just that hazy grey area of Friday and Saturday red wine to “relax”. What went way was love - love of pleasing others, always putting needs of others first and what came back in its place, love of self, prioritizing my needs and care and tranquility, beautiful and soothing quiet.
Two summers ago my son, lost his best friend. They were 12 and had both dealt with childhood illness their entire lives. Young kids, like dogs, have a lot to teach us about death. Being by his side in the weeks of her dying, taught me so much about how to be open to it all. How to put down the shield of my softened heart and let it all seep fully in. The death, yes, but also the tender beauty, the community, the love that makes it all hurt so much in the first place. When I got the call that the end was nearing he begged me to take him to her. He wanted to do right into it. For her. I got him from school and drove the three hours to the children’s hospital where she was, thankful that the doctors agreed to allow him into the ICU to see her. He wasn’t afraid. He touched her and talked to her. The final goodbye would come the following week when he shared words of what she meant to him, over zoom in the last minutes of her precious young life. In the coming weeks as he moved through his days, attended her funeral, planted her a tree, wrapped himself in a blanket given to him by her during one of his hospital stays, he talked not so much about death, but much more about love. The love over-road all else for him. It was deeply sad, but deeply beautiful.
The largest loss in my life was that of my mother passing when I was 23 years-old. The waves of grief felt tremendous, often unbearable,- especially in the company of those who were closest to mother. The empathy-sponge of my emotional makeup could not bear their pain, while contending with my own. Six months later, on my 24th birthday, I was hiking near a small quarry on rather grey day. Sitting down on a rock, I looked at the water then up at the sky. Beautiful light started pouring from a small circle in the sky and a flock of seagulls appeared in the light. My mother had jokingly said if she ever came back to this world, she would like to come back as a bird. The message seemed clear, - look towards the light, - you will find what you need. I've been so fortunate to have mother figures drop into my young life when I needed them. Having a Mary Poppins ("practically perfect in every way!") mother-in-law seemed a gift from the heavens. Years ago, a buddhist friend made me aware of the "the wanting mind." I make an effort to keep the desires and cravings in check, and feel grateful, when the unexpected delights, and wonderful people come into my life.
Write about a time when something you loved and lost returned in a different form.
We adopted a German Shepherd/Mastiff mix pup when my 1st two girls were little. We named him Toby. He was a big boy, and very handsome, soft, goofy and lovable. He was full grown when my 3rd daughter was born and she really bonded with him. They would curl up together on the floor, snuggly and blissful. I would invite Toby to come up into my lap (I have a generous lap) and he would try his best to fit all of his 75 lbs on me, inevitably leaving his hind or front legs hanging. I would stroke him and hug him and whisper to him "in your next life you will come back as a lap dog so you can get all the cuddles you want". Time passed, as it does, and Toby grew old and eventually passed away, leaving a big hole in our lives. At that time I was going through my divorce from my children's father. Fast forward a couple of years later, after my older girls graduated high school, I relocated to North Carolina with my youngest. She was only 11 and the move was tough on her. She missed her sisters and our noisy house, always full of teenagers and visiting friends. We moved to a home in the mountains on six quiet acres, complete with a pasture, a rushing creek and a bridge. One day, while driving down the winding road that led down the mountain to town, we rounded a bend and saw some white fluff trotting along the side of the road. It was a furry little dog! What was she doing on a mountain road? We pulled over and, of course, she jumped right into our car, obviously afraid. Dirty, with matted long hair, she was lactating. Where were her puppies? We spent the next week going door to door on that mountain road, hanging up posters at local vet offices to no avail. We couldn't believe that this sweet little 8 lb. dog was all alone in this world. No one stepped forward to claim her! As she settled into her new life with us (we named her Mu), I realized that this was our Toby, reincarnated as a cuddly, fluffy lap dog, back in our lives to comfort Isabella once again. The two of them were inseparable. Mu will be 14 in May (we made up a birthday for her based on the vet's estimation of her age). She is as brave and faithful as ever, larger than life in that 8 lb little body of hers, at her happiest cuddling up in our laps.
I was very sick with panic attacks and agoraphobia in the early 90’s. This is the result of violent beatings I received from my biological mother when I was 7 years old. I hated who I was from 7 on. I needed a caregiver while so sick. A caregiver came named Nancy who was to stay 2 weeks and stayed 10 years. She became my surrogate mother and I her surrogate daughter. Nancy when little was beaten, called the N word and saw lynchings. She and I gave one another the love and appreciation we both had never received in our own families. Nancy died two years after she stopped caregiving in my home. She died from Alzheimer’s. Our love was so strong and powerful that after she died I slowly turned from self hating Sherri to loving, kind and happy Sherri. The old Sherri is still present in my inner child, but I take such lovingly good care of her. “Nancy we loved each other so”!
Your framing of Oscar’s death reminded me of the one comforting thought I had during the dark first weeks after losing my dad. It’s a dark thought but was my only way of making sense of his death. My daughter was 14 then and her mortality was always on my mind because she has cystic fibrosis and a close friend of mine lost her daughter to the same disease just the year before, which left us all reeling. When my dad died, my only consolation was that now my daughter had someone she loved and felt safe with waiting for her on the other side. That if I lost her too she wouldn’t be scared or alone. Pretty bleak consolation, I know, but it got me through. That thought shifted later to comfort knowing he was watching out for her. I still believe he watches out for her. That was 13 years ago and she’s on a drug now that has eased my fears of losing her too soon.
I wanted to be a mother so desperately as a single 40 year old, that I unsuccessfully underwent IVF. The child that almost was, was a boy- they were able to tell me that much when they told me it had failed. But years later I had the honor of becoming step mother to the most incredible young boy in the world. It was quite accidental as I hadn’t intended to date or marry someone who had children at the time. Sometimes I think that had I not lost that one boy, I may never have gotten to be stepmother to my incredible son. He is truly the greatest kid, and I am tremendously lucky.
I love the Kafka story, how he nursed her along until her strength was her own. Thank you as always, my Sunday morning ritual of going here first …with the sun rising…..in the quiet of the household, always a gift to open Suleika’s prompt! 👌❤️
As a child the silent somewhat bulky presence of a piano always captured my attention. There was a piano in our family house, in the livingroom, holding its own, no matter what went on in our family life. Amazing to me, now, to recall that piano and how much space it occupied. It was truly a grand piano, stretching out its full body.
As a child I did not appreciate piano lessons and practice time; I’d rather be outside tossing a ball to a friend. However, when my mother sat at the piano, playing and singing, doing both so well, joy seemed to enter our house. She truly “played her heart out”, gave it full reign, and she sparkled with delight. I enjoyed stepping up to the piano’s side and singing along with her. This also happened at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s father would sit at his piano and suddenly he sparkled and came fully alive. This was the only time I saw my grandfather full of joyful energy. So, was it the piano I “wanted” or the aura of happiness and playful energy that took hold of these two people?
These days there is no piano in my living space. There are many flutes. On the rare occasion that I meet a piano somewhere out in the world I still feel the magic that took over my mother and grandfather. I will reverently sit on the piano bench, touch a few keys, and I am transported to a special inner sanctum of joy and delight. I never learned to read music. Each moment with any musical instrument, especially a piano, is improvised, fresh, and delightful. In that moment I join hands with my mother and grandfather, our hearts meet in a secret place, and we celebrate our delight in living.
These days flutes take my breath away and ignite my heart. I zoom via computer into children’s hospitals and senior citizen homes and joyously share the music of my heart. Music is a mysterious thread that still connects me to my mother and grandfather, their delight at the piano, and creative joys. The instrument has changed. The energy that enlivened my mother and grandfather as they tickled those keys now takes hold of me as I take a deep breath and journey with a flute into a sanctuary of sound. 🏮
I haven’t seen my son for 31 years. A searing loss which continued year after year from the day he left at 17 vowing I would never see him again. And so far he has kept his promise. And I have kept mine. To remain open to a reunion. Of understanding and overcoming the difference which can so dramatically divide us. It’s not so much the work of imagination for me but the willingness to show up for children not my own. Who have become my own. Go where the love is as the saying goes. And I have. I always will. Despite the losses.
The day after my daughter, age 23, was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer John Denver died in a plane crash. John’s music had been a huge part of the sound track for our family story. I turned to my husband and asked, “Do you think John died so Sara can live?” His response, “It doesn’t work that way.” “Poems, Prayers and Promises”, became Sara’s theme song when the cancer treatments could no longer sustain her life on Earth. She sang the lyrics with a heart felt resonance - a knowing - that brought her peace during the time she grew to accept she was leaving us all behind. Like Kafka’s Doll she was going on an adventure that none of us had yet travelled. It was a bittersweet moment listening to her sing, 🎶”it’s been a good life all in all…🎶 Letting her go was beyond any pain I had experienced in my life. Part of me died that day, 24 years ago. It feels like just yesterday. Yet, when I listen to John Denver’s beautiful haunting lyrics today, I hear Sara’s voice singing inside of me - making me smile with the thousands of warm memories
we shared during the 26 years we lived together. This song brought Sara comfort while she lived, the memory of her singing it brings comfort to me to this day. Holding sorrow and joy in one palm is possible. I look forward to Suleika and Susan Cain’s chat today. They are the Masters of the Bittersweet Universe. And, I have much to learn.
I lost my dog Annie to cancer at six-years-old. She was a very silly bearded collie and I loved her fiercely. A few days after her death I was sitting on the lawn in the sun pulling weeds out of a flower patch in my backyard thinking about her...missing her. A cat jumped down from the fence and strolled over to me. She began nuzzling my hand. I had never had a cat in my yard in the decade I had lived there, and I told myself she was sent by Annie to bring me comfort.
I lost my smile on March 15, 2021. I loved my smile so much, wide and bright, and Bell's Palsy took it away overnight. I had been warned over the weekend but didn't connect the dots until I woke up that seismic Monday with mouthwash drooling down the right side of my mouth that I realized the burnt feeling on the right side of my tongue on Saturday, (that I shrugged off as an allergy because I had been buying plants that morning), and the excruciating pain on my right ear down to my jaw on Sunday (that I dismissed as biting down too hard in my sleep), had both been red alerts of what I was going to lose. I was told my smile would return in a few weeks. Indeed, that smile that ‘went on a trip to see the world’ did return, and indeed, ‘her travels changed her’. Today, almost three years later, it's not as crooked as it first appeared on my bathroom mirror that Ides of March morning and it is loved and accepted as the catalyst her owner desperately needed to fulfill a decisive life journey. Sometimes, like now that I am writing this and realize of how far I've also traveled, I am grateful. Other times, when I relapse into anger and frustration, I am despondent and depressed. Nevertheless, I am also grateful for those overcast days. Nothing says ‘now it's time for a commercial break we'll be back in a few’ like dark clouds. So I've also learned to love a pause and just be with what I've got.
I had a kitty that died in a terrible accident that I caused. That moment is forever imprinted as I loved my kitty so much. She was so young, joyful and followed me for the short time we were together. Following me was her demise -- and-- from then I hoped --and -- missed--although I loved Skyra. It was a long time after that I saw a picture of Olympia a Lynx Siamese kitten who had a failure to thrive. She was being fed goats milk and chicken. I knew she was the one, and I applied to adopt. My application was accepted. Olympia arrived with her toys and a wonderful foster Mum. I know it was right--she was here the kitten I lost another opportunity to love. Nine years have gone by and I thank her every day-for the love---
This was, quite possibly, THE perfect piece. As a self-proclaimed dog nerd of the highest order, I don't know a love greater than that of the love for my dogs. And I do not know a greater love than that of my dogs for me. I lost my heart dog, Packer (chocolate lab), when he was 14.5 years old. I'd had him from the very beginning. It was about five years ago now, and I still miss him just about every day. But the intense pain of his loss has been replaced - by a gentler sadness, accompanied by the best memories of him. Not to mention all that he taught me. He was the first dog that was truly mine (we had dogs growing up, but owning a dog on my own was completely different), and he showed me the meaning of unconditional love, the power of simply lying in the sun and enjoying the moment before you. He showed me how to love without judgement and live without worry. He taught me about the importance of living in the moment and so very, very much more. He gave me so much in the course of his 14.5 years, and he continues to remind me of those lessons years after he's gone. I now have two black labs (Phinley - 7 and Wrigley - 4) and they fill my heart with so much. They continue to teach me about love, about patience, about being present. I am so lucky to be their human.
This story from Susan Cain's book was wonderful, beautiful, and an important reminder. Of the kindness we can give, and the power of love - even when transformed.
Thank you so very much for once again sharing something so meaningful, so powerful...You are so very appreciated.
"The importance of having Oscar"
Sometimes, our biggest protectors come in a form of the smallest, speechless creatures with hearts so big that could barely fit their tiny bodies <3
One of the most heartbreaking pieces. I am happy that you and Oscar met, I wish for everyone to have such fierce protector as you had.
I keep reading this all over again this part and tears are streaming down my face:
“As I read about the timing of Oscar’s departure, and the conditions under which it came to pass, I cannot help but think that little Oscar was perhaps doing the same for his beloved Susu, to aid in her healing.”
Ethanol, gasoline, petrol, more commonly known as alcohol! That is what went away for me six years ago. No dramatic rock bottom, just that hazy grey area of Friday and Saturday red wine to “relax”. What went way was love - love of pleasing others, always putting needs of others first and what came back in its place, love of self, prioritizing my needs and care and tranquility, beautiful and soothing quiet.