On Farewells
ollie and i near our favorite lakeside trail | seattle, washington
My best friend, Ollie, is now running free. He passed in my arms on our sunny porch one spring afternoon this year.
My own practice of courage is deeply raw as my heart splits wide open.
Ollie and I have experienced incredible adventures, marked by deep highs & lows. Six years of togetherness & three of separation, nature trails old & new, and plenty of play.
Whether together or apart, we’ve somehow always looked after each other.
The morning he died he quietly placed his favorite little peanut butter bones in all the areas of our home he knew I’d need one. Under my desk while I work, by my walking shoes next to the door, by the bed, in the cushions of his (my) favorite chair, on our sunny porch, and at the entrance to the shower where he used to stand vigilant ever since I fell inside of it.
To each of my clients, please know Ollie looked after you too. He quietly & actively listened to our sessions together from his favorite bed beneath my desk.
He rarely interrupted yet always listened. :)
Ever curious & kind, he will remain one of my greatest teachers of courage, presence, & joy. In these first months without our everyday rituals and adventures, courage has met me in the heart of my grief fall — (thank you for the term & your wonderful book, @ginamoffalcsw)
Courage has been like a dear friend, reminding me to breathe deeply and soften into feeling it all.
Some days are okay. I get into a rhythm and life feels full and abundant. And then there is a knock at the door from the mail-person and the knock is followed by sheer silence. No barking to alert me to a “stranger” in our midst. And then the grief feels a knife, tearing through me once again.
I’m practicing taking each day as it is.
Trying not to rush or slow down this experience. Allowing it to be what it is without resisting the hard parts is definitely a practice. Yet attempting to control things has never been healthy for me. It creates all sorts of inflammation in my life, body, and spirit. (More on that in another blog.)
As life would have it, a rather large collection of family, friends, and clients have recently gotten new pups. It’s honestly been fantastic to witness them fill their days (and nights) with dog training, adventures, and new best friends. I love the stories and enjoy hearing them. Each one touches upon a memory I long to keep alive within me. Yet it isn’t always easy either. Sometimes the things we want most are both good and hard simultaneously, aren’t they?
Some would say “Just get another dog, Tonyalynne” and others say “You’ll know when it’s time again.” Here’s what I know to be true. I’m not ready for another dog just yet. I first have more healing to do.
Let’s get real. The loneliness is intense.
No pitter patter of paws on the hardwood floors. No mischievous hide and seek moments. No little ball of fur trying to steal my chair or watching me make coffee in the early morning sunrise.
I live alone and work alone. The house is deeply quiet with exception to any noise I make. I thought I had always enjoyed the quiet yet now I’m wondering if that was simply because it was a rare experience. Haha!
I’m no stranger to death or loss. I’ve had plenty of it. Yet this farewell seems to hit differently. I’m still not sure why even as I write this and that’s ok. I don’t need to know. I just need to be honest with myself and soften into an acceptance of all of it even though I wouldn’t have chosen it.
We never know how much time we’ll have with anyone we love.
After three years apart, Ollie and I had been trying to catch up for lost time. Going on adventures together and creating a life which allowed us both freedom, shared fun, and an abundance of nature. Ollie loved humans as much (or slightly more) than other dogs. He was wicked smart and deeply curious. He accompanied me on most walks, most hikes, and often on vacation when permitted. He and I were always making friends.
Now I ache for more time.
I’m learning to fill my walks with silence. Music, podcasts, and audio books are played on occasion too yet silent walks are needed to engage what I’d rather not engage. The hollowed out feelings of loss.
You know what feeling I’m talking about, don’t you?
I don’t love the silence on these walks (or in my home) — it’s deafening at times — yet that’s how I know I need the silence. Whenever it takes our raw courage to do something, we’ve hit a growth edge. It’s an invitation to cultivate more depth and more healing. And it’s growth and healing that will move us forward.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds, as the old adage once said. It’s what we do with the time that changes things, that changes us.
Will I numb out or will allow myself to feel gutted? I ask myself this question a lot right now.
Courage is helping me to choose the latter.
(Except for that one time I bought Salt & Straw Honey Lavender ice cream and ate half the pint while watching old episodes of my favorite medical drama series. Yup, I numb out too.)
As the weeks become months since Ollie’s death, my grief is evolving. I still cry and frequently sit in his favorite chair that he loved to steal. I also find myself belly-laughing at memories and pictures of him now. I enjoy connecting with friends, family, and clients about their pups a little more than in the beginning. On my walks, I’m cherishing the brief exchanges with other humans and their dogs on the trails. I’ve even started petsitting again.
Here’s what I know to be true.
Courage will be there for us in our farewells if we reach for it. It will be messy too. And that’s ok.
Courage is rarely loud. It’s the gentle nudge forward, a tender & persistent beckoning to look directly at the truth of things, to express the truth, and to do the truthful things. Even and especially when we’d rather not.
