I am not one who takes pictures of the moon. There is just no way I can properly photograph the moon with my little eye phone. Yet, last week I felt I really needed to take a photograph to help me remember my gratitude for December's full moon. Every morning I was able to watch it descend in the dark western sky, a view I can see from our kitchen and dining room windows.
This was the week when I realized that I needed to learn to take a walk without Jack. Those of you who have or have had a canine walking companion understand how much company they can be. Jack was a quiet dog, and was generally pretty patient when I stopped to take a photograph. I, in turn, tried to be patient when he wanted to stop and investigate something his nose found of interest. Yes, I miss his gentle presence very much.
We all have our strategies for coping with the aftermath of loss. One woman I know said she found she had to give up walking for a bit. Another said that she had to drive to another neighborhood for her walks. A friend of mine actually adopted a four month old puppy within days of her dog's unexpected passing. None of those options (especially the puppy) seemed right for me, so I opted to walk in the neighborhood, but I chose to not walk down the street that I live on. I felt I was not ready to explain why I was walking without Jack.
Yet, life seldom conforms to our plans. I was almost home when I heard a woman's voice coming from behind me. I turned and recognized the woman coming towards me. I usually see her sitting by her window with her Bible in her lap. We have often waved to one another, and we once talked on the phone about a community issue. She and her husband have lived in the church that they have led for many years. She asked me if I was all right. I told her about Jack, and she nodded her head and said, "That is what I thought. I have never seen you without your dog," and she expressed her condolences.
Through this exchange, we now know each other's first names and we know a little more about one another. I learned that they have retired from most of their ministry, but they are still delivering food to some of the elders in their community. She asked if I needed some vegetables. I thanked her and while I truthfully answered that I had plenty, I wondered if I was beginning to look decrepit. And, maybe more importantly, if I were in need, would I have the courage to simply answer yes?
Despite my inner monologue, it was a cordial meeting that helped me realize that I can now talk about Jack so I can stop avoiding neighbors. It also reminded me that grief can connect us to others. We all know grief, and as painful as it is, it is part of our common language. It is not so much that we heal from grief, but rather grief can heal us if, even briefly, we follow its lead and allow others into our lives.
Sister Moon has now journeyed on, and I have not seen Sister Rita since then. Yet, I am grateful for their appearances that reminded me that the earth and moon are still dancing in their orbits, and I am still walking in mine. Others are with me, so I need not worry about being alone.
Training in equanimity is learning to open the door to all, welcoming all beings, inviting life to come visit. Of course, as certain guests arrive, we’ll feel fear and aversion. We allow ourselves to open the door just a crack if that’s all that we can presently do, and we allow ourselves to shut the door when necessary. Cultivating equanimity is a work in progress. We aspire to spend our lives training in the loving-kindness and courage that it takes to receive whatever appears—sickness, health, poverty, wealth, sorrow, and joy. We welcome and get to know them all.
Pema Chodron
as quoted in today's First Sip
image: December's Guidance, 2022 San Leandro
