I have been grieving the death of a beloved pet—a little white dog that shared her life with me for over 15 years. We began our journey together with her liking to  be held on my shoulder, and we ended our earthly journey together with her being held on my shoulder as she took her last breath.

I am no stranger to the grieving process, the stages, what helps, what doesn’t help, etc.  Intellectual understanding doesn’t make experiencing grief any easier. I’ve lost dogs before, but this death put me into a “downward tail spin.”  It has been 10 days no since she died, and yesterday was the first day I started feeling vaguely like myself. The day prior to that I had tried to determine how much dog food to order in a new “auto ship” and how often I should have the order shipped. I found I could not multiply 4 X 4—–then I had trouble determining how many months were in 60 days. My mind is a “PhD mind” that supposedly functions at a genius level, and it was totally humbling when it could not function. I’d known I was having trouble sleeping and concentrating, but my failure at doing even simple math was almost frightening.

I hear my deceased dog playing with my other dogs. I feel her brush against my leg. I wake up thinking she is trying to get my attention so I’ll pick her up. I’ve heard her bark as I drive my car into my garage….she was an avid contributor to the cacophony of sound my dogs make to welcome me home. I’ve even called out to her thinking she’s in another room.  Our pack is now three rather than four, but I still wait for the fourth dog to come running through the door when I let the dogs outside. I find myself still grabbing 4 treats rather than 3. The dog Maggie “mothered” cries in his sleep now, and I’m trying to give him extra attention.

In the midst of all this angst and depression I have found comforting prayers. I have had wonderful love and support from my friends and even from the company that ships my dog food. I have listened to conversations about how being broken triggers transformation and how there have to be opposing forces to exist and evolve—-for transformation and growth to occur. I feel broken, and I know my mind hanging onto the past when Maggie was physically here is in conflict with my simultaneously wanting to “move on” and refocus on a “mindful reality.” I don’t know that I’d say I am “transforming,” but I do think I am supposed to learn something from this that has yet to be revealed.

Yesterday I started mindfully noticing things again for the first time since her death. I noticed a turtle dove close by, I heard a variety of  birds singing, I looked up while driving and saw jet trails in the sky that formed a perfect cross—-and lowers blooming in almost every yard. I think that means I’m getting better. I don’t cry as often, and I am beginning to be able to redirect my thoughts to positive memories and gratitude. I can finally concentrate enough to “write about it”—-something experts seem to agree on as being instrumental for recovering from grief. I was able to get “my stuff together” for my annual pilgrimage to visit the income tax gurus.

So, what have I learned so far that might be helpful? It is okay to cry and be sad when you lose a close companion. It is okay to be preoccupied, not think straight, and have insomnia. This was my new normal, and once I accept it and allowed myself some self-nurturing things started to slowly improve. Forcing myself out of isolation and spending social time with friends was extremely important and helpful. And, yes, writing this has been helpful. But what is most helpful is being able to tell you that things do get better.

I feel like I am in some cosmic prolonged game of “Hokey Pokey.” You know,  the “you put your right foot in and you shake it all about” routine we used to play as kids. Only now it is one body part at a time affected for several weeks—-and you have to be careful not to shake it all about. First it was my left knee, then my right knee, then my right foot, then my lower back, and now it is my left shoulder (rotator cuff). At least they are taking turns. I am learning a new vocabulary. I’ve found out  osteoarthritis is another way of saying “degeneration.” Or, to phrase it another way,  it is as if each joint is wearing out with age. I never saw this coming.

Then, of course, I am of the generation that never trusted anyone over thirty and yet seemed to feel we were immortal. It is quite a shock to realize age catches up  with even us. I have become dependent on ice packs (or frozen peas) and analgesics.

Participating in the most basic, gentle exercise event offered by the center where I go to “exercise” should be a piece of cake.  But both times I have participated in the aquatic arthritic group my body has rebelled with some new point of inflammation and pain. The elder “regulars” are in better shape than I am…..they smile and return to class after class. They’re not having to resort to “walking only” while in the pool.

Okay, now that I’ve ventilated, I’ll get off my “pity pot”—–and move, instead, in the direction of wisdom, and by that I mean moving towards gratitude. I have a body. All parts are working. I can afford to go to an exercise/swimming center. I have friends, volunteer involvement to keep me busy, four white challenging dogs, a roof over my head, a wonderful church family, supportive 12 step groups, and food in the refrigerator. At the push of a button I can view almost anything on my television(s), listen to music from all around the world or travel anywhere with Google and the Internet. My I-phone can tell me how to get to almost anywhere. For these things I am grateful. Although I must admit using a compass and a map works better for me than using my I-phone to find my way.

I know, too, how with all I have to be grateful for it would be easy to self-isolate and get stuck on any pity pot I wanted to obsess about. Thankfully, I have a choice. I can, instead, stay involved in my support systems, rely more on human encounters than those found in cyber space, and enjoy the love I share with four dogs.

Those of you who have been followers of my blog may notice this is a familiar theme/recurring pattern of mine. By that, I mean owning resentment and choosing to release it and immerse myself in positive things and gratitude is something I have written about before, and I’ll probably need to write about it again in the future.

I will close by saying that Christ did not complain about the suffering he experienced during his lifetime, and if I truly want to walk in his footsteps, I need to learn to complain less and love more. May God bless and keep you.

I know my readers may get a bit tired of my writing about my dreams. But I am having trouble making sense of this one, and writing is the best way for me to do that. I do know that the dream I awoke from this morning is exceedingly strange, but I think it had some important messages embedded in the strangeness.

In the dream I found myself interacting with a group of nudists in, of all things, a church service. It was as if we had returned to viewing nudity as Adam and Eve  reportedly did prior to eating the infamous apple. Nothing was sexual, no one stared at someone else’s nakedness, and the biggest miracle for me was that I was totally comfortable with my own nude body. Equally strange was the fact that no one got self conscious until I said the closing prayer and it was time to get dressed and leave. Everyone looked for a dressing room so they could hide what they were putting on until they were fully dressed and ready to once again walk shoulder to shoulder with the general public.

Obviously, this was about peeling away layers of what I consider  to be” protective barriers” of my inner, true self and being comfortable in that vulnerable condition. It was also a strong message to accept my own body even though it does not confirm to the media’s image of how a body should look.

What jumps out at me is my need to hide the protective layers I put between my inner true self  and the outer shell I wear as I walk this planet with others. So, I must ask myself, “Why is that important?”

I haven’t a clue, so here starts the free association thinking outside the box that will hopefully give me a clue. The dream does not seem to be about the outer layer that I wear for public acceptance. Perhaps the dream is associated with the fear that if someone knows how and what armor I put on to protect my inner true self that my protective armor can be more easily penetrated?  No.  I think I need to explore in more depth why the layers of armor between my inner self and  the outside layer seen with the naked eye are so important.

I have spent the past two days immersed in a “Dismantling Racism” workshop, so I can’t help but think I need to more closely examine the layers between my true inner self and my outer layer covered in white skin and associated aspects of white privilege. I think it is because I have a bit of work to do in identifying those layers and working through them as much as I can.

The first layer must have been formed when I was a child by what I was taught and what was role modeled for me. Those are probably closest to my true self since they were created first.  Remnants of those faulty and harmful beliefs learned as a child and adolescent still rattle around in my subconscious to the point that they can still affect my behavior and relationships with others.

Developmentally speaking, next would be the layers I added when I escaped my home of origin, got an education, and started building my career. This allowed me  to encounter and relate to persons of color which helped me form more accurate and healthy attitudes regarding persons of color—-particularly my experiences in Kansas City and San Antonio. Most of that part of the armor, while still somewhat superficial, was more positive. However, in the midst of all that I kept some of my prejudicial and sterotypical thinking. So even that piece of my protective armor is something I’d rather hide from others.

Now I come to the “current” piece of armor associated with the way I live now.  I am retired. By choice I live in a blended neighborhood. I make a point of smiling, waving, and initiating conversation with my neighbors of color. The ugly part is the interactions are superficial and somewhat uncomfortable as they don’t go any further…..except for the visits I have enjoyed from neighborhood children. I’d like to think I am not close to my neighbors of color because they are mostly transient and move on within a year’s time or sooner. But I have to own my part in not trying to further bridge the gap between them and me. I’ve told myself it is to ease their discomfort that I back off from trying to initiate meaningful dialogue, but I have to be honest and own that I am also avoiding my own discomfort.

Working with (supervising), providing mental health care as a psychiatric nurse, and teaching persons of color was different than walking across my yard as a retired person and striking up a comfortable conversation. I don’t particularly like the realization that the majority of my relationships with people of color prior to my retirement were most probably affected by myself being in a position of white-privilege because I had control, power, and authority. And now that I don’t particularly care to have those attributes, it makes stepping out of that context difficult for both my neighbors and myself because we are not used to relating to each other without that privilege dictating the rules. And that privilege is still in the way for me and for them as it makes it difficult for us to truly trust each other.

To be fair, I am a bit of an introvert who lives alone with four dogs and values my time alone, and I don’t have more than superficial conversations with my white neighbors either. But when I do, they are not uncomfortable because we are not trying to work through, over, or around barriers of color based on centuries of hurt, greed, and mistrust.

Well, that is enough to get out of a weekend and a strange dream.  It feels overwhelming in terms of “where do I go from here.” I do know that if I allow Creator to guide my thoughts and actions and if I strive to see Christ in every face I meet it will make this journey easier.

It is a good thing I call myself evolvingelder rather than elder, because I still have a long ways to go in the attaining wisdom department—I still from time to time find myself bogged down in a reactive rebellious adolescent mode. At a bible study I was at last week I automatically, loudly, and somewhat rudely reacted to the word “discipline.” This morning, a close friend helped me examine what might have been the source of my outburst. In the course of our conversation, I realized that I react to the words perfection and authority exactly the same way.

My friend suggested I try to go back in my memory to explore where this aversion to the three terms of authority, discipline and perfection might be coming from.  I had a father who was a strict disciplinarian, and when I was young and hadn’t yet learned better, I’d ask him “why” when he gave a command. At that point I was seeking information and understanding, but I would, instead, get additional scolding and a spanking. At least I didn’t get spanked with a belt or switch, but being held up by one arm swinging back in forth while you are being punished is not much fun either. So the authority and discipline I grew up with were extremely unpleasant—–not so much because of the physical pain but because of the strong messages implanted in my mind that I was bad, not good enough, and definitely not worth an explanation.

One might ask where “perfection” comes into this.  My mother was a very critical person who demanded perfection—-or so it seemed. She was particularly perfectionistic  and critical when it came to piano playing, sewing and knitting. Of course, I tried to learn these things from her and was criticized to the point that I felt like whatever I did was not good enough.

In all fairness, I must point out that in spite of these questionable parenting practices both of my parents loved me and also gave me positive attention. I do not remember the words “I love you” being spoken, but I remember the times my mother read to me when I was a child, all the clothes she sewed me, and how she would stand up for me if she thought I was treated unfairly—be it at bible school or nursing school. I remember my father playing with me when he got home from work when I was a wee one—later there were the times he took me fishing, flying in his plane, and on family summer vacations.

Perhaps, as I have been known to say to clients during the years, it is not important what caused something, what is important is what you are going to do about it now. I realized this morning was that I have projected my parent’s characteristics onto God—–meaning that while I can accept the concept of a loving God without any problem I still have a strong visceral reaction to an authoritarian deity who demands perfection and punishes his Creation, sometimes in seemingly cruel ways.

It is time I started perceiving my God/Creator in an adult manner rather than in the manner of  a small child who can see only all good or all bad. I have prayed about this. Hopefully, I am and will be changing this lifelong pattern of resenting authority, discipline, and perfectionism. I am starting to understand that God loves me, but it is because of his love that he sometimes needs to protect, guide, or give me “negative reinforcement” in order to protect me and to help me be and do what he has put me on this earth to do. Questioning and rebelling against that kind of authority puts a barrier between my Creator and myself.

Who knows, maybe I am finally spiritually growing up. One would hope so. I apologize if I have sounded “preachy”——my intent was to change my own behavior and thought patterns . Of course, if my spiritual and mental meanderings are helpful to anyone else, that would be delightful. God bless and keep you.

I know I have not written for months. But I am about to burst out of my “funk” because this is something I have to pass on. You may think I am a bit nuts by the time you finish reading this, but I had this profound experience, and I believe it delivered a message I am meant to share.  I made a new friend today, and talking to her helped me get interested in writing about it.

Shortly before I woke up on August 29th, I had a dream experience that touched my soul and is still touching it. In this dream I was standing looking up through the leaves of tree tops, and this bright light was shining down on me. Suddenly, I felt as if I was in direct communication with God, soaking up His bright light and love. I consequently had the thought, “What would happen if I just decided I can be happy?”  This was quickly followed by the thought, “What if I believed everything was going to be alright?” At that instant  I realized Creator/God was in charge and that I could relax. It was a moment of pure joy.

Now I know these messages are not new, and I have read them and heard them before. But they were never before communicated to me directly by God—-nor did they affect my behavior the way these dream messages did. It was as  if they were planted in my soul. I stopped worrying about floods, bombs, Korea, politics, ugly things written on Face Book, etc. I  have thoughts about these things of course, how could I not living in today’s world? But now I don’t ruminate on them. I remind myself I want to be happy, and I remember Julian of Norwich’s message that “All matter of things shall be well.” And,  then, I do relax. I can redirect my thoughts into a positive direction and surrender all worries to God.

Realistically speaking, what does that mean? Well, I’ve stopped fighting the new way doctors have told me I have to eat—–and I’m  eating “bad carbs” and keeping track of calories. That means I’ve surrendered a lot to God at this point, including over 7 pounds in less than a week. It means I am learning to remember to take my vitamins. It means when I’m at a traffic circle instead of cursing at people who don’t yield I remind myself if they want to ignore their yield signs….let them, what does it matter? I hear our president promising he has a big heart and he won’t let our “dreamers” down—-and then the next day he terminates the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. I have to let it go; I can’t change it. I have to pray for him anyway.

I am less anxious and depressed. And I am very grateful for that. I hope some of you reading this can experience the same thing.

 Photograph compliments of Janet Alan Goforth

First of all, this is an outpouring of a grieving soul. My writing is free association at this point, and it may not even be coherent. Do not expect correct grammar, transitions,  or even good writing. I am very emotional at the moment.

I cannot stop crying. The house I grew up in is burning down. No one was hurt. But, so many memories are going up in smoke. Watching for the school bus out the back bedroom window so we could throw our coats on and run up the driveway in time to be there when it pulled up. Being there with my father the last few days  he spent there and finally getting his permission to call the ambulance that took him away for the last time from the home he built and lived in……I watched him build that home from the bottom up. I was 4 going on 5—-that makes the house that is burning  or has burned by now survived almost 63 years of memories.

Christmases there…bringing in cedars to decorate, decorating the windows, playing the piano or the organ, sitting on that awful pea green circular sectional sofa. Mother’s drapes with geometric modern art bright orange and green shapes on them. Waxing the floors—wood and tile. Storing winter or summer clothes in the hallway closet depending on what season it was. Dogs, cats. Beloved pets. Working on homework, baking cookies, mother reading stories to me. Mother sewing our clothes, dressing us all up for Easter. Family cousins, grandparents visiting, holiday dinners, watermelons my father would bring home after work. My  father making pancakes on Sundays—–and, later, Sunday pancakes changed to Sunday biscuits. Our small bedroom us 3 girls shared. I got the top bunk.

Our first little black and white TV and watching “I’ve Got a Secret”—-the first TV show I ever watched. Later came Captain Kangaroo, Howdy Doody, Sky King, Roy Rogers, Mighty Mouse, Romper Room, Walt Disney on Sunday nights. My father making us shut off “our shows” so he could watch boxing when he got home from work. The party we had there when I was in high school—– I hosted it with three other girls as our “home economics” project. We were dancing in the front yard—doing the “Twist”. Hunting for Easter eggs, Becky shaking Christmas packages trying to guess what they were. Anita dressing her cat up in doll clothes—–that cat would always run from her. Bringing boyfriends home and other friends from college. Reading library books in the summer. Riding my green and white bicycle (“Thunderhead”) up the hill to visit Mary Jane or Ellen. Playing Monopoly or Canasta or Rook.

Watching home movies—-laughing at the dynamite explosions played backwards. “Camping” out in the family tent in the back yard. Going out in middle of night to watch falling stars—–remembering my grandmother told me a falling star was an angel carrying someone who died up to heaven. Hanging clothes out to dry in the back yard. Fishing in the ponds, riding horses, dodging walking sticks on the  mountain, pulling cat tails out of the lake, pulling thistles out of the field with my father. Having the “I Will Build Myself a Farm” counted cross-stitch my mother did and had framed sitting in my laundry room and not knowing where to put it.

Going home after “the divorce” never was the same.  Both of my parents had remarried,  and visits had to be split between two homes. But still, the good memories outweigh the bad, and now the house is no more. My parents are dead. Dear friends are dead. My retirement is not comprised of sitting on my deck gazing at the mountains in Colorado as I had planned.

The TV I am looking at as I type was my father ‘s —and it came from the house that is burning. That beautiful rock fireplace and “waterfall” my  father was so proud of having built—-all gone. That beautiful picture window gone. The trees we planted, the swings we swung on, the orchard, the roses, the other flowers, all gone.

I do not like having to learn the lesson of letting go, but that is what life is all about. Learning to surrender, to let go, to accept life on life’s terms realizing things and people are not fair. Enough time spent on the “pity pot.” Here is what I am grateful for: my four dogs with their unconditional love, my two sisters, my friends, my church, my faith, God’s eternal and unconditional love, my house, having enough money, health care, and food to live comfortably. Being sober and clean. My mind, my soul, my life. My memories…..and the gift of being able to make new ones. The lessons being “pounded home” to me this week have all been about letting go, connecting, working on community, and being grateful and compassionate. I just could have done without this latest lesson.