Of Moon and Ministry

 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

A Day for Healing

 Earlier this week, Tyler mentioned that he would probably have a short work day on Friday in San Francisco. I asked if I could go with him. I was struggling some, and I have fond memories of Jack and I spending a workday in the city with him during the pandemic. So yesterday, I got up and dressed, grabbed my good long forest green coat (one of my best thrift store finds ever), shut the door, and left.

It did feel odd to leave the house without making certain Jack was settled in. It felt odd to have a day when there was no reason to be home at any particular time. There is always the risk that concern, while at times can be laudable, is too often habitual. Sometimes we humans just have to accept feeling odd and get out and meet people.

I had met Yuji before and I was grateful to see him again. He is a very lively Japanese musician and artist who is enthusiastic about everything from Tyler's music to Japanese football, to a dog named Rosie who comes to visit when her human companion needs something from Yugi's incredibly well stocked corner market. As Tyler concluded his transactions, I went outside to take in the sun. It was a beautiful clear day in the city, and the beautiful pink blossoms I spotted in a container alongside the building were so encouraging. Later, I met a proprietor who has created a lovely container garden that stretches for close to half a block alongside his building. I marveled at his rose geranium and its large fragrant leaves. He surprised me by giving me a cutting of it as well as a cutting of a fuschia (okay, I confess I am intimidated by that).

After lunch, we stopped by a dumpling shop where I have shopped before. The women who work there are extremely efficient, so the lines in and out of the cash only shop move quickly, except perhaps when I am there. The only amenities in their small space are their good food, and the warmth extended to those in the neighborhood who appear to stop by regularly. Besides their coveted dumplings, they offer some entree items, and a couple of older customers gave me the sense these women help keep them, and probably others, sustained on a regular basis.

Yesterday reminded me that businesses can play a large part in helping a community thrive. Their presence can be healing for those who are appearing for an hour or so, or for those who are growing old right before their eyes. I was also reminded that Tyler can drive through the city with remarkable alacrity, and he is far more optimistic about being able to fit his car into a small space than I will ever be. I also learned that a hamburger served on grilled bread with homemade sauerkraut and whole grain mustard can be worth sacrificing a diet for. Maybe that is part of what healing is about: tending to the daily, while making room for the new.

May I remember.

image: December 2022, 26th and Guerrero Market, San Francisco

Lighting the Way Home

 Yesterday, Jack, our dog, was put to sleep in our home. We scheduled the appointment about ten days ago, so we were able to do some mental and emotional preparation, but there was no avoiding the sorrow that we woke with on Tuesday. I did some sweeping and straightening up, opened the curtains, lit the bayberry candles, and took a few red carnations from our Thanksgiving flower arrangement for the mantle. I chose a purple etched bud vase that I had not used in a long time. I have two, a purple one, and a blue one that belonged to my mother. I cannot remember where she got them, but she treasured them. Tyler and I have had several conversations about our parents during this time of waiting. I have realized once more that if we let it, grief can bring us to deeper relationships because it reconnects us at a deep level. I paused at the mantle, which is my altar. I bowed my head and thanked the Source of All for letting us borrow Jack, and that I knew it was time to return him.

Dr. E. arrived on time, and explained the two step procedure. She was soft spoken and gentle. No movement was wasted; no superfluous words were spoken. With gratitude, I sensed both her compassion and her training. Jack surprised me by his willingness to jump on the couch in the presence of someone he did not know (even in his last days, he could be enticed by the promise of a few Charlee Bears). We quickly settled into our usual spots. His head was by my side, and my hand stroked his wooly head as it had done every day. Yes, Tyler and I both shed tears.

I keep a string of small white lights on the mantle, and these were lit. As I waited, I reflected on how beautiful the autumn light was that morning, and I was grateful that I had opened the curtains. Then, as Jack's physical body came to final stillness, the light around the mantle became brighter, and the light that came through the windows became even more golden as it filtered through the yellow autumn leaves outside. In that moment I knew only unity. I knew without a doubt that every creature on earth is connected. We are not a zillion separate souls, we are one soul. Whether we are a mushroom or royalty does not matter. All of life is divine because we are all of God. Yes, physical death is a part of having a mortal body, but none of us really die. We simply change and move on.

Thank you, Jack, for bringing this knowledge and this love home.

Next time what I'd do is look at

the earth before saying anything. I'd stop

just before going into a house

and be an emperor for a minute

and listen better to the wind

or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether

blame or praise or just passing time,

I'd watch the face, how the mouth

has to work, and see any strain, any

sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more—the earth

bracing itself and soaring, the air

finding every leaf and feather over

forest and water, and for every person

the body glowing inside the clothes

like a light.

~ William Stafford

image: I took this photograph yesterday after Dr. E. and Jack left. The brightness of the room had diminished some. Perhaps because at least some of it moved into our hearts. The painting is a water color that a friend of mine painted from a photograph I took on a hike with Tyler and Jack at Lake Del Valle in 2020. Jack loved to hike, so weather permitting, we will return there on Saturday. I thank my friend for her generous gift that allowed me to remember that day and that light with gratitude.