Sorry I didn’t warn you in the title, but this post is about grief. You know what it’s like. Spring! The grass has greened, the trees have leaved and, so far, no jumping worms in your raised beds. The house finches have returned and hatched their first brood in the wreath on the front porch. The great blue heron is back on the beaver pond posing as sculpture until a shimmering morsel wriggles past. The reluctant rhododendron is blooming. Yes, the joining of sky and earth has done it again in a big, beautiful way as the great wheel of life starts another turn.
And yet. That’s right, you know the feeling. And yet lodges in your gut like a small river rock that doesn’t block the flow, but tugs just enough to plant dread in your system. Somewhere vague and shadowy and frightening and sad.
You turn from it. It follows. You run, and it runs with you. You become angry and scream fiercely (and desperately) leave me alone. It takes you in its arms and holds you tenderly as you hear its truth:
Everything in form will die.
He was a shelter dog who actually chose me. In spite of his challenges with hip dysplasia and periodic seizures, he was the sweetest, most loving dog I have ever known. He came with the name Chester, which I later understood was perfect for him. What other name for an accomplished master who opens hearts by his presence alone?
Chester was what I call a shaman dog. He attended all circles I facilitated on the land and sometimes filled in as a practicing client. He loved all things shamanic – the sage, the rattling, the singing, the drumming, the people, the work. I would often half-humorously describe him as my canine soulmate.
And then one day years later, he was gone. Literally, gone. He had spent the previous day as usual – by my side – then watched me as I later said goodnight and went upstairs to bed. After this, Chester looked in on my husband in his office. Then he walked into the kitchen, pushed open the screen door, and went into the woods to die. We (my husband, daughter, and I) never found him, and boy did we search.
I became more compromised each day and despaired that I would ever recover from this loss. A frantic voice inside of me grew louder and louder suggesting what might protect me from this misery. The voice took me over and declared:
I’ll never love again!
That’s when Chester came to me in a dream. He insisted that I had to get over this, and that a dog was coming who would help me. We were back at the Kennebec Valley Humane Society – where he had first found me – watching from outside. All the dogs were released and a young, tawny dog with a tawny ruff came up to me. This, Chester told me, was my next dog. Then I woke up.
I immediately began looking for this dream dog at shelters. No luck. We visited with non-tawny dogs who responded to my husband, but when I called or my husband directed these dogs to go to me, the dogs would look around, baffled as if they couldn’t see or hear me. I gave up.
And then, after about four months had passed since Chester’s death, I dared again to look on the Kennebec Valley Humane Society website – and there he was, the dog in my dream. Exactly the dog in my dream.
My husband and I did the one-hour drive to Augusta, and I waited in a greeting room for Kirk. When he came in, he sat in front of me, looked into my eyes and put a paw on my lap, just as Chester had done many years before. We brought Connor (formerly Kirk) home, and the wheel of life slowly began to turn again.
Something similar happened again last fall. Kairos, our big, beautiful German Shepherd became suddenly and deathly ill and was gone within a week. The silence in the house after losing him (and our beloved cat just two months earlier) was deafening, unbearable.
In alignment with my spiritual tradition, we left Kairos’s body for three days to allow consciousness to completely vacate his physical form. Then we buried him in the back of our garden, in a lovely, tear-soaked coffin that my husband had crafted. Kairos was laid facing the Tibetan prayer flags that fly at the entrance to the meadow.
The next day, my husband received an email from a Tibetan Terrier breeder looking for someone to rehome a former puppy. The now ten-year-old dog needed another loving home due to his owner’s changed life circumstances.
A couple of weeks later, we were chosen to be the new parents of Moseley. What a dumpling he is! And even though we’re still grieving Kairos, the wheel of life has once again begun to turn.
We hold these stories as examples of those who love us, somehow even in death, helping to ease the pain of our loss. Neither Chester nor Kairos nor any of the countless animals and birds I have known and loved throughout what is becoming a long life would ever suggest that we not love again. I believe these animals are teachers to help us learn that we must love again … and again … and again. And if we love, it’s also essential that we learn how to grieve, and grieve well.
In September and October, Christina Sillari and I will be leading a Death Demystified workshop for anyone who has ever had a rock of dread in their stream of being. We’ll be delving into the mysteries of both life and death. We’ll also develop some grieving muscles along the way. Please join us if you can.
Wishing you love — always,
Chester and Kaye
