Tag Archive | unconditional love

Cindy

Jun29

I am having trouble sitting down and writing about Cindy. I don’t know where to start, as the loss of her continues to deepen in layers. Her mortal remains were laid to rest today in a peaceful forest in Maryland.

As that was happening there, I was looking through notes and photos to compile a post. I ran across this dream I had just a year ago, which I shared with her at the time. I almost didn’t, but then I read it to her over the phone. She laughed her musical laugh, and said, “I wonder what that’s all about.” I felt like I knew, and was surprised that she didn’t.

We have been at an apartment, mine I think or yours, and left, and have forgotten a key, or have extra keys, one of us goes back for something.

We sit on a bench outside the Home like mischievous children, giggling.

We are suddenly somewhere else, on Independence Avenue downtown, mystified; strange things around us.

Then we are back on the bench, wondering what just happened, marveling at the oddness. Then we find ourselves somewhere like Tuscany, and begin to understand that we are experiencing some miraculous journey.

We are in the National Cathedral—is it on Independence Avenue?—among the stones and stained glass; and then we are somewhere different. Your Angel appears. He is a tall and burly, gentle man, with grey hair, wearing comfortable grey clothing.

Then we are on a curved balcony in a modern metal building, and a slender young Spanish man climbs the stairs to join us. I worry he’s an intruder but it turns out that he is my Guide. Your Angel is in charge; my Guide assists. We are standing on a sidewalk on a village street, dry and yellow.

All along you and I have been entirely together in this journey, sharing our wonder with looks and touches, inquiring. You turn into a medium-sized grey speckled dog, with the kind of big head that I love. I hug you close. You turn into a bird.

You are golden-feathered, in size and shape like a small pheasant. You fly up into my arms. Your Angel gathers us all, my Guide and I and you and the dog and the bird, into a mutual hug, and we are off.

We arrive at the opening of an underground temple. I must crawl through the gold-bricked opening alone, carrying you the golden bird. I come to stand in a round, ornate room, filled with soft golden light, glittering with small mirrors, jewels, and myriad beautiful symbols in all colors of all traditions. 

A gentle goddess, lady of light, instructs me. Of all these small wonders, I must choose the one which is you, and bring it out into the day.

Cindy in 1977, Best All-Around Girl, and the most beautiful in the class.

Cindy and I went to high school together. She was the kind of girl people would gawk at and forget what to say. Or at least I did. She was beautiful, kind, smart, and a tier or two above me in the social hierarchy. She was Homecoming Queen, assistant editor on the yearbook, and voted “Best All-Around Girl” in Senior Superlatives: I worked on the other side of the school as editor of the newspaper, and was voted “Most Intelligent.” We didn’t know each other well, but enjoyed a cordial, mutual respect, and both loved our AP English class.

Rita, editor-in-chief of The A-Blast and voted Most Intelligent.

We went our separate ways after high school, and the only thought I occasionally gave her was one of ironic envy. Her family had gotten the Australian exchange student Bronwyn instead of my family, because my brother had been a butt to the teacher in charge a couple of years previously. My mother and Bronwyn had a special relationship, and she took comfort in our home when her first placement wasn’t working out. I located Cindy again in 2010 after tracking down Bronwyn, once the internet made that kind of inquiry possible. Remember when it wasn’t? Sadly, we lost track of our friend down under, but we had found each other.

When I visited my father in his dementia for what turned out to be the last time, Cindy drove an hour to spend an hour with me. The memory remains vivid: It was a perfect October day in Northern Virginia, clear blue sky with a few clouds, ambient temperature just right for light sweaters, geese on the lake at the Home where the Colonel lived. Cindy and I strolled three times around the lake, to the delight of my dogs; ideas, experiences, and aspirations flew unrestrained between us, and by the time she had to leave, our common ground had become the solid foundation for a relationship in which she became so much more than a friend: a teacher, mentor, healer, employer, and collaborator. 

She did not like her picture taken, and so I don’t have many. But every time she visited, we made sure to take coffee or cocktails to the Black Canyon National Park just down the road.

The next fall, she invited herself to come do a (more or less) silent meditation retreat at my house. We spoke only a little at lunchtime, and from dinner into the evening. I did whatever during the day, and prepared meals for us, while she moved about the yard and through the woods stopping to meditate wherever she found a good spot. I walked her (in silence) down to the canyon the first time, and left her there. An hour later while I was washing dishes, she walked in and held up her phone to show me a picture: a large and perfect bear track in fresh mud. Without a word I dried my hands, and followed her back into the woods where it took her a minute to locate the track in a draw a way off from the designated trail. A moment of awed – and silent – delight. At our next meal we talked about it, how she had ended up off the trail, how she had found her way back, the thrill of wild unknowing when she saw the track, and how her heart beat all the way home.

Cindy sorts out the Ikea bench pieces that she bought for our first retreat here.

One thing led to another. She enjoyed her retreat so much that she suggested, “This would be a great place for teachers to come for retreat!” And so she returned annually for several years, and each time our dream came closer to fruition. We offered our first retreat in summer of 2019, and planned on four more the following summer. But then came Covid lockdown, and we knew it wouldn’t happen that summer. A few months later she was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma. As her obituary says:

“Those closest to Cynthia had the privilege of witnessing her graceful cancer journey, which she viewed not as a battle, but as an opportunity to live well and with full acceptance. Handed a diagnosis of a rare, Stage IV Cholangiocarcinoma with a dismal prognosis, she maintained an incredible perspective of acceptance of each stage, and deliberately chose optimism, peace, and perseverance. Upon diagnosis, she dove into research, becoming an expert and active participant in her treatment. She participated in clinical trials and tried new and non-standard treatments with success. She ate well, invited in spiritual guidance, and stayed present in whatever was happening in her body at any given time. Most importantly, she continued to live and love well throughout the past four years, spending treasured time with [her daughter], as well as close friends. She laughed a lot, pursued the work that she loved, and continued to teach and see clients, far outliving the initial prognosis.”

After a sudden decline, she slipped gracefully from her body on June 13, 2024, in the presence of beloved family and friends. She continued to teach us even in her dying, her death, and her after-death choices. In the Buddhist tradition, her body rested at home for three days where her life was honored and her spirit loved. She gave us all a sacred and intimate opportunity for goodbyes, and opted to surrender her corpse to aquamation rather than cremation, currently one of the most planet-friendly choices.

Resting during a morning walk on The Survivor tree, an ancient juniper alive for nearly a thousand years. It survived drought, lightning, toppling, and someone’s attempts to cut through its massive trunk. You can see the saw line just above Cindy’s knees, and green leaves of living growth in the top right corner.

What I’ve written doesn’t scratch the surface of who this remarkable woman was in life and the legacy she leaves. Her profound influence on my life is as immeasurable as her kindness and compassion. Cindy believed, “We are all here to love as well as we can…each other, all beings on the earth, the earth itself. We are here to evolve so that the barriers to loving fall away, so throughout our lives we love more boldly, with more clarity, with a deeper knowing that we are all one.”

She laughed when I referred in one of our early discussions to “my cold, black heart.” I cannot imagine who I might be or what purpose my life would have now, had she not come back into it when she did, with her boundless and unconditional love, her inspiration and enthusiasm. Above all, she believed in me: in my innate goodness and in my capacity to thaw and open what she perceived as “your tender, broken heart.” My gratitude for Cindy is as boundless as her love. I am only beginning to comprehend the magnitude of her absence; even though her presence will live on in the work and lives of hundreds of students around the world, and in the hearts of all who had the good fortune to love and be loved by her.

Sea of Love

Nov6
Stellar plays a trick on Raven at Hughlett Point. He thinks she can’t see him! She is perplexed! Romp ensues.

Today I am grateful for community, above all. I’m also grateful for flexibility and strength, my own and others’. I didn’t expect to have to euthanize Stellar, and hoped not to; but that was ultimately the right choice. After toodling along at his own pace, with occasional expressions of discomfort and frustration, but plenty of seeming ease and happy interaction, eager to remain engaged with life, there was a sudden change about ten p.m. Thursday night. Thus ensued a night of horrible suffering for him, and utter helplessness for me. There’s a great disparity between what’s available for hospice care for a person v. what’s available for hospice care for a dog. The meds in my arsenal simply couldn’t touch his pain for several hours. My knowledge of what to do was also lacking. By around 4 a.m. I was finally able to get him drugged enough to relax. We drifted in and out of sleep together on the floor.

Stellar begins his last car ride, surrounded by love.

A wee-hour email to a friend resulted in an informal vet consult and kind advice at sunup (thank you, K&D). A text to Dr. Tam at 5 led to a short whispered phone call at six, and by the time offices opened at 8, I was making calls trying to find a vet to come here, without success. Several of Stellar’s and my friends rallied around, and converged here at 9:15. Four of us carried him on his blanket out to the van, and settled him on a soft bed. I crawled in and lay curled around him. He never opened his eyes or raised his head. Garden Buddy and Uncle Bill drove me to Houseweart Vet in magnanimous silence. Deb and Rosie set to deepening and lengthening the grave Stellar had been working on for years, under his favorite tree.

When we crossed the river, Stellar raised his head. He knew exactly where we were. There’s a pullover where we used to park and let him run down along the river any time we drove that way. Even though it’s been a year since we’ve done that, wow, those dogs never forget. From then on, he occasionally raised his head and laid it on the console, as he would for any other car ride, any other journey. It was a beautiful thing to see, his calm, his interest, his acceptance, ok, we’re going for a ride! The rest of the time he laid his sweet head down beside mine, peaceful.

At the vet, it couldn’t have gone better. He lifted his head for one last pet from GB, then turned and pressed his forehead against mine in a profoundly moving gesture of connection. Then he settled back into our spoon where he remained calmly through the procedure. Dr. H said, “He’s going to need a BIG hole!” I said, “There are a couple of girls back home digging one now.” He said, “I mean a backhoe hole!”

I cried all the way home. When I paused from crying over Stellar, I looked into the front seats and wept again at the enormous kindness of my staunch, wise, compassionate friends, who took this time out of their day to help us. And they didn’t say a word all the way home; they simply let me grieve in peace within the comforting support of their noble silence, as if knowing that I couldn’t stand to hear a word of condolence.

Not a backhoe, just the right tools for the job, and the power of love.

I pulled myself together when we got home. My gravediggers suggested I take a look to be sure it was right before we carried him down there. I walked to the favorite tree and was staggered by the size of the hole my two lady friends of a certain age had managed to dig, and the enormous mound of dirt beside it. I burst into tears again. I was not alone in that. Rosie said it best: “He was a very good boy.”

Stellar curled up for the final time under his favorite tree.

There are millions of acts of kindness and compassion every day around the world, which we tend to forget because we never hear about them in the ‘news.’ Yesterday I was overwhelmed with keen awareness of the kindness of others. And the texts, voice messages, emails, and gifts dropped off since yesterday noon have kept my heart buoyed in a sea of love. Stellar loved everyone. He was the epitome of loving-kindness: he brought a sincere intention of friendliness to everyone he met. Many people loved Stellar in their own ways, and his life and death touched them deeply. I’m grateful that I got to be steward of a dog with such a big heart and extensive loving influence.

The Boyz came for lunch today, and to finish filling in the grave. I’m grateful for their comfortable, easy presence in my life, and for the love that they both held for Stellar. And he was devoted to them, could hardly contain his excitement even in his last weeks, when his Boyz came over to be with him.

I’m grateful that a new, unknown friend in Australia shared an excerpt from this poem for me, after I told the story of Stellar’s demise in our monthly zoom meeting; an excerpt in which his mother had switched pronouns and sent him in a card a couple of weeks ago after his own dear dog Oscar had been run over and killed.

Her Grave
by Mary Oliver

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile—–
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming
perfect arch of her neck.

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but, anyway, it began to rain
slowly.

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?

She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.

Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!

How apt is her grave place.

How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.

After a twelve hour sleep last night, I am strong and stable in my grief today. There is emptiness everywhere I turn; and also, there is his presence in the space around me, and in the space within. I woke feeling skinless and raw. I’m grateful for the opportunity to grow into a new skin of unknown qualities. I hope to bring Stellar’s boundless heart into the person I become without him.

Flowers from my dear neighbor today on Stellar’s so apt grave place.

Practice

Oct26
Stellar and his sister Moonshine at about ten days old, held in the loving arms of my dear friend Chris, their ‘birth’ mother.
Stellar at four, helping in the office.

It was a rough day. Stellar woke crying in the night, and I spent the rest of it in and out of sleep on the floor beside him. He wanted to go out in the morning but couldn’t walk. I spoke with his vet to get clear instructions about palliative dosages for his pills, and the cold reality of the ways mammals die colored the rest of the day. He got himself up late afternoon and went outside, begging for a walk. We tried, but his back legs just dragged in the sling, and he kept heading to the right, going in circles if he didn’t encounter an obstacle like a sagebrush or my leg. I could barely move him along, and found myself crossly impatient.

I’m grateful for the introspective skills I learned in mindfulness training, so I could observe my reaction with gentle curiosity. We were never far from the fenced yarden, yet the prospect of his falling down and not being able to get him back inside made me anxious; that and some other inconveniences, and being so tired… it was a rough day. But now he’s sleeping, and I’m sleepy, and off to bed. I’m grateful for friends who care and understand, and offered help with some errands this week. I’m grateful for perspective, support, the forgiveness of unconditional love, and another day tomorrow to practice.

Stellar and Raven romping in the high country on a hike with Rosie nine autumns ago.

One More Day with Stellar

Oct24
Stellar at five, in my lap, again! I’ve been trying to find this one particular shot of the last time I was able to hold him in my arms. It continues to elude me in various hard drives and backups, but I have a fresh lead to follow tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m grateful for the joyful journey down memory lane.
Meanwhile in real time, he couldn’t get up this morning without assistance. I helped him outside with a sling, but his left back leg just wouldn’t cooperate. A few steps and we turned around. I fed him breakfast in bed. A couple more times he struggled to get up so I helped him out for a short stagger; then he slept all day.
Around four, he wanted out, and by golly that leg worked again–just barely.
He only fell once on the short Sunset Loop, and then I wrapped him in a belly band for the next few hours. He wanted out again after dark, so I took it off, soaked, and threw it in the washer. He’d be mortified if he knew I was sharing this picture.

I’m grateful for the products available to manage his incontinence. I’m grateful he had a pretty easy day with little agitation, grateful today wasn’t the day. Each day, each challenge, offers another opportunity to practice patience, compassion, and unconditional love. I’m grateful that I have this precious time, these hours each day, to lie beside him on the floor and remember with him the travels we’ve shared back and forth across the country, our joyous life together here for almost fourteen years. I’m grateful for the perspective that allows me to settle more deeply each day into this process of surrender, of letting go: grateful that when it’s over, I really will be able to say I brought my best self to this passage of our lives.

Stellar in his youthful prime, flying uphill.

Stellar’s Last Days: Stretching

Oct20
I’m grateful for another mild day to permit Boyz Lunch, grateful Stellar is still here to delight John, grateful to see how happy these two are to see each other.

I feel like a new mother. I spend an hour lying on the floor with him, soothing him to sleep, and then I roll over, get up, and go in the kitchen to do dishes, or wrap another set of pills for him, or take my own night pills, and I turn around and he’s there behind me, panting, hungry, wanting, needing. His appetite is insatiable these days. His energy is greater than mine. His confusion is increasing. His mobility looks good when people come around, and they say He’s doing great! But they see him at his best, alert with steroids, and the excitement of their attention. When it’s just the two of us, he stumbles a lot more; when we walk through the woods, his back legs frequently tangle and stretch out behind him, and he hops on his front legs for a few steps, dragging his back legs on the tops of his feet.

He remains the most beautiful creature I have ever known, and I’m grateful for all that he has taught me and continues to teach me about unconditional love. At the same time that I’m exhausted, that it’s a kind of torture to watch his up and down decline, I’m grateful for each day that he wakes alert and eager for a walk, that his eyes follow me around the house, that I get to spend time in the evening lying beside him massaging his muscles, holding his pressure points, feeling his pulses, hearing his breath, looking into those trusting brown eyes, loving this soul that has never let me down.

Though I have whinged a bit recently about the extra work entailed in caring for his infirmities, I’m grateful each day for the accommodations and adaptations I’m able to make, in order to make his last days more comfortable, and to be more at ease with him, and a little less precious about meself. I’m grateful for stretching my capacities for acceptance and compassion. I’m grateful for this ongoing surrender in service to another sentient being, a being as worthy of my regard as any other.

I’m also grateful today for wrapping up the canning season with the last batch of salsa, at last! Grateful, too, that a few tomatoes remain ripe and ready for sandwiches and cooking, and a few more green tomatoes ripen in a basket and on hanging vines, to carry me another month or so with fresh fruits. I’m grateful for a bountiful harvest this year that will provide nutritious homegrown food through winter, as well as a few gifts for friends and family. I’m grateful to live in this little mud hut in the woods, with a good dog, a sweet cat, a quiet tortoise, a garden, friends, and solitude. Above all I give thanks.