I have had some time to reflect on Dima's death over a month ago, and what it is starting to mean for me.
I'm coming to realize how undervalued the physicality of life is--at least for me. Or maybe undervalued isn't the right word, but how overlooked it is. But when someone passes, it is the physical moments one misses--the sounds, the smells, the touches and presence of someone. The feel of that someone. And memories are a collection of these tangible moments; they are what the body craves in the absence of that which is lost.
Much of my 30s so far I've lived in my head. Troubleshooting issues at work with software, scheming how to encourage organizational change, obsessing over the slights of coworkers. And all along, life is going on.
What brings me happiness is the dog hanging out in the backyard or my husband cooking me his "breakfast extravaganza" on a sleepy Saturday morning. It is dinner with friends, a delicious cup of coffee, a seriously good laugh. And though I've been a participant to these in the past couple of years, I haven't savored them, or lived them, really. Rushed and trying to survive work--I'm finding it all so empty when I stop and pay attention.
This moment is all I have, and why not look for the good in it, or at least live it with a sense of awareness and appreciation for what it is?
I think of Dimitri in Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, a self-proclaimed Sensualist. And I think of his brother Ivan, who spent so much time wrestling with life in his mind. I used to resonate with Ivan and his rationalism, but as I grow older, I wonder if Dimitri was on to something.
Much better to go out and touch the world, to feel it on your skin and take in all of its noises and smells, its views . . . . It is, quite literally, the stuff of memories.
Dec 3, 2011
Oct 17, 2011
Grief
Today I came home to find that my dog had died in the back yard. He chose a sunny spot, under a large red maple tree. I suppose he thought today was as good a day as any, and that it was best to leave me quietly and without much warning.
He occupies so many of my fondest memories, so much of my heart. My home feels strange without him.
When I found him, I knelt beside him and sobbed until my brother, his roommate, and my husband arrived. I had 20 minutes by myself to sit beside his body and stroke his soft, furry ears. I ran my hands down the length of his back, over and over, and told him how much I loved him, how thankful I was for his life, how I was so afraid to let him go. With my head against his eerily unmoving chest, I remembered all the times I had fallen asleep with him at my side, and all the journeys we survived together.
We were family.
When Jeff got home, we sat beside him further, whispering again how much we loved him while kissing his cheek. We covered him with a blanket to transport him to the animal emergency shelter, and even there, each of us had to say our goodbyes, petting and kissing his ears, thanking him and wishing him well. Steve first, then Dave, then Jeff and me . . .there was so much love in the room, so much sadness and longing, too.
And now my heart is raw, full of all of the love I have for him.
My dear, sweet Dima--I have such tenderness in my heart for you. Thank you for leaving on your own terms and in the best way (really--should I have expected otherwise?). I hope death came to you softly during a sun-warmed snooze, and that in your going, you knew you were loved.
He occupies so many of my fondest memories, so much of my heart. My home feels strange without him.
When I found him, I knelt beside him and sobbed until my brother, his roommate, and my husband arrived. I had 20 minutes by myself to sit beside his body and stroke his soft, furry ears. I ran my hands down the length of his back, over and over, and told him how much I loved him, how thankful I was for his life, how I was so afraid to let him go. With my head against his eerily unmoving chest, I remembered all the times I had fallen asleep with him at my side, and all the journeys we survived together.
We were family.
When Jeff got home, we sat beside him further, whispering again how much we loved him while kissing his cheek. We covered him with a blanket to transport him to the animal emergency shelter, and even there, each of us had to say our goodbyes, petting and kissing his ears, thanking him and wishing him well. Steve first, then Dave, then Jeff and me . . .there was so much love in the room, so much sadness and longing, too.
And now my heart is raw, full of all of the love I have for him.
My dear, sweet Dima--I have such tenderness in my heart for you. Thank you for leaving on your own terms and in the best way (really--should I have expected otherwise?). I hope death came to you softly during a sun-warmed snooze, and that in your going, you knew you were loved.
Sep 24, 2011
Breathe.
12:15 am on a September morning. A new Joe Purdy album playing and the house to myself--why not write a little?
There are moments in my thirties when I feel a bit of happiness. Today more than one pleasantly surprised me . . .breakfast with my husband in our screened-in porch, a long walk on Summit Ave with my dog, and my cat raiding the treats jar during a vet appointment this morning. Even now, finding new music from one of my favorite artists and hearing it for the first time . . .these small experiences of recognizing contentment--I want to slow down more. Relax.
Years 30-32 have been for me what Minnesotans like to refer to as "interesting." What they (we) really mean is "the jury is still out."
With this blog I don't want to spend too much time in the past. The goal is to be attentive to the present, to be grateful, to really make time to show love to others. And I think more than anything, I want to pause and take it all in--to name and remember what is good here in words.
With that said:
In today's yoga class I tried to focus on breathing. During one of the poses I sounded like a rhinoceros, loud and heavy. With a different pose, the instructor had to remind me to breathe as I was unconsciously holding my breath to get through it. But by the end I fell into a rhythm. My body started to sync with the movements and I felt centered . . .and not so much that my mind had to master my body to achieve this, but that my mind was finally resting and attentive to my body's work.
And I think that is the trick, to quiet the mind and bring it into congruence with the body. To focus on the fundamentals: inhale . . .exhale . . breathe in . . .breathe out.
There are moments in my thirties when I feel a bit of happiness. Today more than one pleasantly surprised me . . .breakfast with my husband in our screened-in porch, a long walk on Summit Ave with my dog, and my cat raiding the treats jar during a vet appointment this morning. Even now, finding new music from one of my favorite artists and hearing it for the first time . . .these small experiences of recognizing contentment--I want to slow down more. Relax.
Years 30-32 have been for me what Minnesotans like to refer to as "interesting." What they (we) really mean is "the jury is still out."
With this blog I don't want to spend too much time in the past. The goal is to be attentive to the present, to be grateful, to really make time to show love to others. And I think more than anything, I want to pause and take it all in--to name and remember what is good here in words.
With that said:
In today's yoga class I tried to focus on breathing. During one of the poses I sounded like a rhinoceros, loud and heavy. With a different pose, the instructor had to remind me to breathe as I was unconsciously holding my breath to get through it. But by the end I fell into a rhythm. My body started to sync with the movements and I felt centered . . .and not so much that my mind had to master my body to achieve this, but that my mind was finally resting and attentive to my body's work.
And I think that is the trick, to quiet the mind and bring it into congruence with the body. To focus on the fundamentals: inhale . . .exhale . . breathe in . . .breathe out.
Aug 12, 2011
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