grieving

Mourning Miss Marie’s Garden

Posted by Barbara Techel

In the late fall when I move my geranium plants indoors I think of my friend, Miss Marie. It was from her that I learned to do this. Soon I’ll have to cut them back, but for now, I’m enjoying the last of their blooms.

It will be two years ago in February, at the age of 72 that Marie passed away. Her white two-story house on the corner in the hub of our quaint downtown was sold to a gentleman who buys up homes in the area and rents them out to tenants.

It’s been sad to watch the changes to the property since then. Many of the shrubs have disappeared. Then this summer the black ornate wrought iron gate to the entrance of her house was taken down. Before I became friends with Marie, I’d often think of that gate as the entrance to a secret garden, and behind it, I was curious about the mysterious woman who lived inside.

Walking by what was once Marrie’s house is part of my morning route. Today as I rounded the corner I sensed something different once again. As I walked a little further I saw that the garden off to the side of the house was completely gone. Tears sprang to my eyes. It’s now covered over with gravel and has been made into a large parking area. Even the sidewalk that led from her back porch out to her art studio is gone.

The garden, with raspberry plants that leaned over the walkway, and how I’d often sneak a berry or two as I sauntered up the sidewalk to the back porch when I’d visited Marie were now gone too.

Tears filled my eyes and my heart ached for how Marie loved birds and the many that hung out in her garden (and stole the berries too!) who no longer have this special place to dwell. The stories we’d share of critters that often appeared at her home or mine — the toads, frogs, and the dragonflies, oh my (!) — and how we both took such great delight in these sightings.

It all felt so harsh. I could barely contain my sadness as I continued on my path home. Marie loved nature, flowers, books, and animals and was an artist that collaged fabric into the most exquisite designs – she had quite the eye for combining colors and patterns together!

I realized once again why my attraction to her all those years ago when I’d catch glimpses of her downtown or at the post office – and her eccentric style always fascinated me. She lived simply but also loved to indulge now and then in a few of the finer things of life, which she was able to do so with a depth of joy because of her frugalness. Somehow it just made those indulgences all the sweeter. I loved how her eyes lit up and her whole body came alive in excitement when she’d share with me the experience of something she had saved up to do.

For a moment I wanted to just stuff it all down and not feel the heaviness of it all. For a moment I wondered why I feel these things at this depth. I thought to myself that it was silly to be mourning a garden. For a moment I didn’t want to be the person who feels so deeply.

But it is who I am. I realized once again that just as I feel something like this so deeply I’m also able to experience great joy in things others may think seemingly ‘small.’ 

I realized also it’s the essence of Marie that is a part of who I am too and that I continue to strive to be. Nature, animals, art, books, and indulgences in the finer things now and then is what brings me joy too — and what makes me deeply appreciate life.

While I can’t bring back Marie’s garden, I can continue to carry on that very spirit of who she was and who I am too. In many ways, the steps I walk through this life, Marie walks with me and the mourning I experienced with the loss of her garden today was in fact my missing her here in this life.

But it strengthened my determination once again to live the principles that are in alignment with my heart — and the sorrow that had enveloped my heart for a time during my walk this morning is a beautiful thing. And before I knew it I found myself smiling at all the sweet and fun memories.

And this box that contains some gelato crayons that sits on my art table in my Joyful Pause Cottage. It was a box Marie gave to me one day that contained some chocolates inside.  I was just as excited about the box, as Marie was mid-sentence that she said to return it when the chocolates were gone, that she changed her mind and with a smile said to keep the box because she saw how happy it made me.

And I realized now looking at this box how it is a nudge from Marie to continue to experiment with the collage pieces I’ve been making and to continue to make art more a part of my life.

A moment of sadness that turned to sweet memories that turned to inspiration…

xo,

Barbara

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In Memory and Celebration of My Girl Gidget

Posted by Barbara Techel

I adore this photo of Gidget.

Her wise, amazing, sweet, loving, endearing self—it oozes the very essence of who she is. At first, I wrote was, but then felt called to change it because it is who she is, in life and in death.

On Saturday, May 11th, the day before Mother’s Day, we had to say goodbye to her. How could such a tiny dog leave such a big empty space? My heart hurts immensely right now, but I know that this profound and difficult pain came with the privilege of loving her too.

I had noted signs of her slowing down of late, but nothing that felt out of the ordinary, until her breathing wasn’t right. We learned she had congestive heart failure.

She was in my lap as I gently stroked her back and the top of her sweet little head, expressing to her my depth of love for her— thanking  her for being my friend— and for her devotion and patience with me— especially in the last year, as I learned to give voice to a personal childhood wounding.  John sat beside us, caressing her also, and telling her what a good dog she is and that he loved her, too.

When I knew I had to let her go, I heard these lyrics pop into my head, “We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.” A song by Terry Jacks from 1974 called, Seasons in the Sun. I smiled through my tears. It was Gidget letting me know it was all okay no matter what.

To feel a precious life come to an end in ones arms cracks the heart wide open. The primal depth of sorrow I feel for her loss is something I felt no shame in expressing as I held her still body in my arms.

As I slowly drove home I realized that since 1984 we’ve had a pet. There hasn’t been a day in all those years that we’ve been without at least one to come home to. It’s an unfamiliar space I’m trying to embrace now and have found myself wondering about without purpose. But that’s okay.

Yesterday, I felt called to search for a book to support me. I was led to, The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller. So much of what I’ve already read has spoken so eloquently to what I’m feeling. I share this passage:

For the most part, grief is not a problem to be solved, not a condition to be medicated, but a deep encounter with an essential experience of being human.

Though my heart aches I understand that I must feel all of what this is.

Just like Gidget taught me to follow the threads to heal last year, I do that now as I grieve the loss of her while balancing the precious memories within each sacred moment.

I awoke at 2 am today and knew I wanted to write about her and share the news of her passing with you. A part of me continues to want to be alone, but another part of me felt called to be open to the support that will come my way.

What will I remember most about Gidget? So much…

  • Her personality which was a mix of being larger than life, a calming presence, spontaneous moments of silliness, a soul wise beyond her years, and a cuddle bug.
  • How she loved to lie like a baby on her back snuggled in my arms. It was our routine almost every single day at 4 pm.
  • How she loved to lie in the crook of my legs, her front legs half-bent, back legs splayed out to the sides, eyes closed, ears up, and a smile that ran across her face as I rubbed her belly.
  • Walks in her stroller and how often she was the epitome of a princess out on a ride in her chariot, taking in the beauty of the land around her.
  • How she loved cuddle time in bed with John, resting in the crook of his arm. How he’d gently blow on her face and she’d lick his face wildly.
  • Playing “Where’s Gidget?” with her. This was where I’d curl up on the floor in a ball and leave the crook of my arm open just enough that when I called, “Where’s Gidget” she’d burrow with gusto into the opening and excitedly lick my face. How I laughed when after only five minutes she was done and would have this look on her face as if she could no longer be bothered with that silly play.

There are so many more memories and they are of comfort as I move through this complex and contemplative time.

The one thing that will stay with me forever, and one I hold the deepest gratitude for, is how Gidget held an incredible amount of patience and loving space for me.

It’s the gift she gave me and that I must now hold this space for myself.

It’s time to care for me for a while now and spend more time with John. I’ve felt this coming for some time and that Gidget is my last special needs dog I will care for.  

I’ve had to feel into this every step of the way and know that this is okay— even though what I’m experiencing feels incredibly uncomfortable, along with this uncertainty that looms in front of me.

Gidget helped me to see that feeling my way through it all is my best and truest compass. This is what will lead me as I continue to move forward. How do I ever thank her for that?

By trusting this path she opened for me and following it with conscious allowing and curiosity.

I leave you with this passage from The Wild Edge of Sorrow:

Grief is not here to take us hostage, but instead to reshape us in some fundamental way, to help us become our mature selves, capable of living in the creative tension between grief and gratitude.

And so this is what I am doing my best to be with as the waves of sorrow mixed with gratefulness wash through me.

This is the way in which I can best honor Gidget and heal on yet another level of knowing, I’m fine just the way I am.

XO,

Barbara

 

Embrace your grief, for there your soul will grow. ~Carl Jung

The Old Man and Me

Posted by Barbara Techel

The Old Man and Me

In my weekly newsletter today I shared the following story and received wonderful feedback, so I wanted to share here on my blog, too. 

I saw him shuffling his way across the pavement to the volunteer, box of treasures in hand.

I had just pulled up to the back of the building, there for the same purpose, dropping off some items I no longer needed at our local Saint Vincent De Paul’s.

As I stepped out of the car, he must have noticed the dog decals on my back window and said, “Are you donating some dog’s?”

“No,” I said smiling, knowing he was kidding. “Not a chance!”

I sensed he didn’t recognize me right away as he handed his small box of items to the volunteer.

But I remembered him from meeting him several times at our neighbors when they’d have a party or I’d run into him now and then at the post office. Dave, always a great sense of humor, and he often talked about his bird.

I first got to know his wife, Karin. She was very supportive of my work with Frankie and my writing, often sending me sweet notes of encouragement in the mail.

I said, “How’s your parrot?”

It was as if a light of recognition went on. He smiled and began chatting happily about the bird he has had for over 30 years.

And then without warning he began to cry.

“I miss Karin so much,” he sobbed.

Karin died a little over a year ago. I read about it in the paper and was in shock as it seemed so sudden.

And it was. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at age 79 and died within three months.

Dave, now 85-years old, struggling to move through his days without the woman he fell in love with when he was just a young man.

He turned to walk away, still overcome with tears. “I can’t believe I’m crying. I feel so silly.”

Walking quickly up behind him I said, “Don’t go. Let me give you a hug.” I embraced him with all my might trying to convey my empathy for what he is going through.

And I let him talk through his wave of grief. And pretty soon his sense of humor returned and we eventually parted ways.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him all the way home. I worried that I had done enough. Was there more I could have done? My heart ached for him.

And then Tuesday in the mail was a card with his return address.

Inside, a thank you card.

In his shaky handwriting he wrote:
“Barbara!”

And on a sticky label was typed:

“The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the
grandest intention.”

He signed it, “Thank you, Dave”

Now it was my turn to shed a few tears. That small gesture of a hug and listening was all he needed in that moment.

It was enough.

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