CREATIVE GRIEVING: SUFFERING IS SACRED

"I began to realize that there was something sacred about the suffering I had experienced."  EC

Can we talk about cancer in this post.  It seems like when I think of sacred suffering, I think of cancer.  Let's start with a list of the precious people along my life's journey who have died from cancer. 

My grandmother: 1975 Lung Cancer

My supervisor/coworker: 2005 Brain Cancer

My dad: 2008 Stomach Cancer

My husband's bandmate: 2017 Breast Cancer

My godmother: 2021 Abdominal Cancer

My next door neighbour 2021: Lung Cancer

And I could include two coworkers from my time in Edmonton between the years of 2008-2020 that also died of cancer that were also heart wrenching for me.  

"I could not go back in time and change the circumstances. I had to learn to come to peace with that. Don’t get me wrong, there are still plenty of times when I think “what if,” but I don’t allow myself to become tortured over what will never be. Otherwise, I would be condemning myself to a life of misery. I had to accept what had occurred in my life and move forward from a place of strength." EC

After that list, how do I even summarize into words how the cancer journey has imprinted itself on my life.  I haven't even mentioned the ones that had cancer and survived it.  With all the cases among my family, friends and colleagues, one would wonder if it hasn't become like the common cold for me ... but no, it hasn't.  Every diagnosis is devastating when I hear it.  I don't know the outcome when I hear about the diagnosis, but I seem to go to the worst outcome and it wrecks me for as long as the journey holds out.  

I have had the opportunity to be at the final bedside of three of those I have listed.  That is when the holiness of the moment hits me.  I would walk out of the hospital and find myself with no words, tears and a sense that something transcendent had just happened.   

I haven't experience cancer in my own body, so when I talk about the journey, it is always from the perspective of a companion.  I wonder if my own experience, if that is something yet to come, will be as holy and sacred.  

"Embracing your journey is a form of acceptance. It is coming into the full reality of what you have endured and honoring the depth of what you’ve experienced. Despite all the pain and suffering in the world, your experience is still unique and therefore should be honored." EC

Elizabeth's story is inspiring.  She isn't taking me through specific creative grieving methods as much as she's inviting me to challenge my mindset towards grieving.  She invites me to climb out of the conventional box of grief and address life after death with a different viewpoint.  Her journey helps to foster in  a better feeling about how I am navigating my losses.  She give me permission to be creative and that is encouraging.  There is less guilt for me when I have someone come along side of me and support my strange ways of navigating life.  For that I am grateful.  

"Your loss is part of what has molded and shaped you into the person you now are, and the person you will become as you continue to open your heart to life." EC

Back to the cancer... I think the story that I have found in cancer is that even with the  intense pain of watching someone die, there is a strange comfort in being aware of the end.  I'm not blindsided by cancer.  It scary, but it's strangely soothing and through out the journey, maybe then I can find the sacred.   

"Just remember that your story is sacred. The journey you have walked is a powerful one; treat it with the utmost respect." EC

GRIEVING FOR STRANGERS

My husband and I have very different tastes when it comes to our Youtube videos and channels.  He likes cars, BBQ and bushcraft and I tend to gravitate towards philosophy,  people's journeys and music flashbacks.  But we have a couple of channels that we like to watch together -  Camping with Steve is one of them. 

Steve Wallis is an Edmontonian and for us that means doing what we love... supporting local people.  His camping expeditions are far from professional or advisory, but they are stealthy and fun and his recent milestone of one million subscribers tells me that there are a lot of people that like that kind of entertainment. 

This past weekend, Steve's wife, Jess died suddenly.  His video  Rest in Peace My Beautiful Wife Youtube Video  came out this week where he shared the news with his subscribers.  After perusing some of the 68,000 comments, he was adored by so many people.  

The emotions around this house were heavy.  When something happens to someone else, even through that person is unknown to me, it's hard for me not to personalize the possibility.  I felt for my hubby who went there too.  "It happened to Steve, it could happen to me."  That is a very different take from "It always happens to someone else." 

How can I separate the pain of the possibility for myself, and extend compassion for the person who is actually in pain?   That is a continuing question every time I hear another news story.  This time I have an answer.  Steve requested that if we as fans want to do something that we can support our local food banks and homeless shelters,  because that is what Jess did.  

The Food Bank is our favourite charity.  Like I said... we like to support local.  So that is what I am going to do.  I haven't done a food bank shopping trip for a while largely because of the pandemic, but it is one of my favourite pastimes.  I like going to the grocery store and going up and down the aisles and getting supplies that I can in turn bring to the Food Bank.  I have requested the same for the time when others need to do something to remember me.  It will be a joy to do this for Jess.  

I found one comment on the Youtube video that stuck out for me.  It sums up my feelings and my husband's feelings this week.  

"never been so sad for someone i've never met"  A Steve Wallis fan

A CREATIVE GRAVE STONE

There could be dozens of reasons why a grave marker doesn't make it to the grave.  Most often, it takes time to get a standard head stone carved and placed at the grave site.  Until that happens,  most often the funeral home places a temporary marker until the family can make arrangements to have a more permanent piece placed that honours the one that has passed away.  

There could be dozens of reasons why a grave marker of any kind didn't make it on her headstone.  It is not up to me to come up with an explanation as to why her grave was bare.  Her husband had passed away decades ago, and his stone was there with space for her name and dates.  That space may be filled in time, but for now, there is nothing and it bothered me.  I have been there a few times already since her burial, and have brought her flowers and tried my best each time to colour up the mound of dirt that remains.  However, I am troubled by the lack of a name.  She deserves to be remembered there.  

I found a flat stone in my Mom's rock pile on the farm.  I took it home and got out some mini markers and coloured her name on the face with the years she lived.  I didn't want the rain to wash away the colouring, so I sprayed a clear coat as a finishing.  

The day I brought it to the cemetery, was her son's birthday.  It seemed significant that I was able to honour both mother and son on the same day.  

The simple rock as a grave marker is an attractive art piece for me.  I like the creativity and the simplicity of a nature carved stone.  The piece is timeless and has been a part of the earth as all humans are.  I guess there is a purpose to manufactured clean cut headstones.  I am not opposed to them.  It is just a different way to be creative.  I am just partial to the natural touch.  

I just had a thought.  What if instead of manufactured grave stones, what marked the graves of loved ones were multiple expressions of creativity from family and friends.  Imagine the whole plot covered with stones or mementos that came from a creative heart, not from a factory.  It's just a thought, not any intent to put a whole industry out of business.  

What makes something creative is that it is unique.  It doesn't have to be the norm.  The norm is there for a lot of reasons. But the creative is like that special wildflower that blooms in a field of red roses.  It doesn't take away from the beauty of the roses, but just adds a special fragrant gift in the already beautiful.  

"The song is ended but the melody lingers on." — Irving Berlin

 

GRIEF EDUCATION

Grief seems to be the one subject that people don't want to learn about until we have experienced it.  Once we have gone through loss and death, then one might find us reading books on grief and attending grief seminars.  That was the case for me.  

My mother and I had just experienced the most painful tragedy of our lives - her grandson and my nephew.  We found ourselves taking in grief seminars by Rick Bergh, a trained specialist in grief and death.  

Both my mother and I felt a need to surround ourselves with people who could help us navigate our grief journey.  It just happened to be that Rick had some seminars close to my Mom's home, so we signed up and went to two of them.  

I may have forgotten most of the seminar's content, but I won't forget the moment that Rick asked me to share a story of my nephew.  This wasn't just an exercise in giving us some tools to navigate loss, but he listened to our stories.  

Because I attended the seminar, Rick invited me to participate in an online grief training called Grief Start.  I found myself with more tools and more opportunity to work through my losses and grief.  

I could have just let my experience with tragedy teach me, but it would have been a very limited lesson.   I started listening to other people's grief stories on Rick's podcast, "It's all about the Story".  I was introduced to journeys so different from my own, but with good tools to help me with my grief and loss.  Hearing the stories of others also help me gain more compassion I didn't have before.      

I would encourage anyone going through a loss of any kind, to check out Rick's resources.   Grief is a journey that involves mostly  experience, but also is enriched by a little education.  

"Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life's search for love and wisdom."  Rumi

CREATIVE GRIEVING: BEING SELFISH IN MY GRIEF

Dear Friend,

It can be so easy to become overwhelmed with what you think you should or shouldn’t be doing with your time. Yet, when you’ve experienced the loss of a family member who was so close, you need to remember that it is okay to be a little selfish about how you run your life. If you feel like you are bending over backward to make others—your children, your parents, your siblings, your friends—happy all the time, you are going to run out of fuel fast. It is okay to make your own decisions and to grieve on your own time.

Some of the choices you make might not always turn out to be the best ones, as you will see in the next section, but at least you are learning as you go. As long as you are doing things that resonate with “you,” that is what is most important. Remember, the way each day unfolds starts with you. As I said earlier in this chapter, it is important to find your voice. Do not let yourself become any further depleted by ignoring signs that you need to be attentive to your own needs. In the long run, your children, family, and friends will thank you for being a little selfish and learning how to become centered and grounded again. You will be a much more pleasant person in general, and in turn you will have more to give back to others!

Love and Light,

Elizabeth

“Death and loss can be a magnet for toxic people. It’s okay to distance yourself from these negative influences, whether they’re family, friends, in-laws, or coworkers, until you’ve had time to process your emotions. Don’t feel guilty about it. You’ve been through enough. Then, once you’ve decided to move forward, don’t let ANYONE hold you back.”

—Faye H.

I am enjoying my read through of "Creative Grieving".  There is a lot of wisdom I am finding as I make my way through Elizabeth's story.  Chapter three "Me First ( But Don't Forget the Baby)" is encouraging to read because it gives added permission to be selfish.  Maybe permission to be selfish is a good thing.  It's not the "go to" for me.  My first instinct is to help everyone else stop bleeding first.  There is something that always pops up in the back of my brain and tells me at the most inopportune moment. "Someone is always hurting more than you."  That may be true, but it takes effort to not translate that into  "My pain doesn't matter."  

When my Oma died, I didn't go to my parents home right away.  I stayed home in Calgary.  I told my dad, who had just lost his mother, that I needed to stay home for a bit first.  I told him I would come for the funeral and then take time after to be with them.   Dad was okay with that.  I think he understood that I needed time in my own space to start to process the loss of Oma.  Maybe he knew what I knew... that if I did come there right away, I would be lost in their grief and wouldn't be able to grieve my own loss. 

When Opa died, I remember having a panic attack at the gravesite.  I had bottled all the pain up because I had to support my Oma and my parents.  I will never forget the words that came from a family member (not my parents) during my panic attack. 

 "Can't you see what you are doing to [your grandmother], It's not about you."  

After that, I "felt the need to calm down" and go back into my shell.  I've looked at the family pictures we took that day at the gravesite and remember that my tear stained face had not returned to normal.  After that panic attack we had to take a family picture at Opa's grave.   Really?  That was what was important?  

Maybe that day is what came to my mind when Dad told me about Oma's passing.  I didn't want to go into that shell and have an untimely explosion like what happened at Opa's funeral.  I gave myself permission to be selfish.  I stayed home and came up with a friend the day of Oma's funeral and then stayed for a week with my parents.  My decision wasn't met with support from everyone.  I was reminded again that I needed to think about the people who were hurting more than me.  Looking back, I knew that staying put was the right choice.  

I want to emphasize these words of encouragement from Elizabeth.  Looking back at my experience with my Oma and Opa... it makes all the sense in the world.  

"Do not let yourself become any further depleted by ignoring signs that you need to be attentive to your own needs. In the long run, your children, family, and friends will thank you for being a little selfish and learning how to become centered and grounded again. You will be a much more pleasant person in general, and in turn you will have more to give back to others!"EC

REMEMBERING ROWENA ON YOUTUBE AND IN MY ROSE GARDEN

Rowena's Memorial Tribute Video is still my most watched Youtube creation at over 1460 views.  It may not seem like much in the world of Youtube, but for me, it is huge.  And I have "the Redhead from the Rock" to thank for that.  Rowena passed away from cancer in 2017.  

Rowena was the lead singer of my husband's band "Sounds Familiar.  She hailed from Newfoundland and came to the group offering one of the most incredible voices.  My husband's 80s/90s cover band had already made appearances around local  drinking establishments when we first got together back in 2008.  It was just four guys and their music equipment back then.  When Rowena showed up, her presence elevated their performance by leaps and bounds.  She brought an amazing depth and beauty to their music and group.  

As you can see in the video, they still did the pub circuit on numerous occasions, but they also had appearances at Spruce Grove's Canada Day Celebration in 2010, Athabasca's River Rat's Music Festival also in 2010 and finishing up their run at the first Edmonton RockFest in August of 2011.  I came along for the ride on many of those events as an amateur photographer.  So most of the photos in this video are mine.  

Photo videos are one of my favourite creative ways to memorialize people I love.  This time I got to capture not only faces, but the whole itinerary.  This video is a snapshot of their time together.  I am the most proud of this one, not just because it garnered so many hits on Youtube, but because of the story I was able to tell.  The song on the video came from the demo collection that Manfred arranged, featuring Rowena's beautiful voice and my husband's guitar prowess as well.  

I wanted to honour Rowena in my garden, so that year I picked up a red rose bush.  It's deep crimson blooms have been giving us joy and comfort for the last five years.  This year, it shot up to over five feet and has spread itself as much as it has space to do so.  My Rowena Rose has made it into a lot of bouquets this summer bringing added joy to others.  

I have planted other rose bushes in my garden and named them for deceased loved ones, but most of those names escape me.  But that red rose will always be Rowena to us.  Her unique colour in my garden stands out and her vibrant blossoms are now towering over the rest of the bushes.  

Honouring Rowena was always more about helping my husband with his grief and loss.  Personally, I didn't know Rowena that well, but my efforts continue to provide a healing space for my husband as he remembers his bandmate and friend.  

"Grief is never something you get over. You don't wake up one morning and say, 'I've conquered that; now I'm moving on.' It's something that walks beside you every day. And if you can learn how to manage it and honour the person that you miss, you can take something that is incredibly sad and have some form of positivity."  Terri Irwin

THE LAST LETTER TO HIM... WRITTEN AND MAILED THE DAY AFTER HE DIED

Martin                                                                      January 10, 2022

Today I write my last letter to you.  I counted.  You sent me twelve letters last year.  They will always be a treasure.  Your last letter to me was such an encouragement.  Thank you so much for leaving me with such love wrapped up in your letters.  I will miss them and I will really miss you.  This year, 2022, marks forty years since we met.  It was the fall of 1982 when I started my second grade eight year at Round Hill School.  I still remember you greeting me and my parents that fall day.  Your love was evident even back then by how much you cared.  

It was an honour to get to know you and Doris over the years.  You were the first person that Mom and I called the morning after Dad passed away.  Because we knew you were awake early and knew you were the only one who was awake to take such a call.  Thank you for being there for us.  

2021 will always be the year I shared with you in our correspondence.  You shared your heart and soul with me when you were missing so much.  Today is my Mom's birthday.  She is now 85. 

 I was told you were in the hospital, but didn't know yet of the outcome.  On my way home, I went to the Round Hill ball park and sat in my truck and thought of the many times you were umping.  I then went to the school and had a moment to remember meeting you forty years ago.  You were already "beyond breath", so maybe you heard me saying "Thank you" to you.  I didn't know, but I just wanted to be in those places... just in case today was the day... and it was.  My only wish was to send you one more letter and thank you for being such an awesome friend to me over they years.  

I love you and will miss you so much

Ruby Neumann

  * * * 

I wrote this letter and coloured this card for Martin, the day after he died.  I could have just kept it or ceremoniously burned it and let the ashes mingle with the molecules in the atmosphere and imagine his molecules mixing with my letter.  I didn't... I mailed it.  His daughter would have received the letter when she went to clean out his things.  I wonder how strange that would have been for her.  But I wasn't thinking about her possible discomfort, I was needing to thank my friend.  

Martin was the principal at the school where I attended my second year of grade eight.  He reemerged into my life when my parents retired close to the same community where Martin and that school lived.  Last year when I started writing letters, I send a letter to Martin, and he wrote back.  Martin was the only male pen pal I had.  He was 92 when he passed away.   Like I said in the letter, I have twelve letters from Martin.  I hadn't seen him for years, but those letters brought us close once again.  

Martin said something in one of his letters. "Don't ever stop writing".  That encouraged me to find a way to honour Martin in the way that he had blessed me.  So after an internet search, I found an organization called "Love for our Elders"  that arranged for people to send hand written letters and cards to seniors who needed some love.  Every month the website posted were first names and the mailing addresses of the family member that nominated them.  

I wrote letters for six months,  some months, every name posted got a letter.  I enjoyed writing for a while, but it was hard to continue after the months went by and I would get no response.  I was told to expect no replies, because the recipients would get so many letters.  I had only hoped that maybe one or two would get a letter and want to write me back.   I hope the six months was enough to honour Martin.  

I will continue to write as Martin requested.  Maybe it will still be in the form of letters or maybe just poetry and blog posts.  I will write as long as my fingers can move over the keyboard of my laptop.  

I never did hear back from his family.  I hope my letter was a gift to Martin's children.  I hope they know how much of a blessing and encouragement he was to me. That is what I wanted to communicate. in my most unconventional method.  I just wanted to say "Thank you" 

"Grief changes shape, but it never ends." — Keanu Reeves

SHE STILL GETS FLOWERS

 "I like your flowers better."  are words I remember coming from my Mama  Bernice after I shared a visit with her and her granddaughter.  I had brought her flowers from my garden as was my regular gift to her, and her granddaughter brought her a plant bought at a store.  Both gifts were given out of great love, but because the flowers I brought came from my garden and not Safeway, they reached a special place in her heart.  

Mama Bernice has been a special lady in my life for forty years.  I met her when I was a lonely fourteen year old.  Her story is long and one I have written about, so I won't share too many details here.  I met her in 1982 and she became family in 1988 when her son married my sister.  It is hard to quantify what she meant to me in a blog post.  I think even in my own reflective space, I can't even come to a full understanding of who she was to me.  

When Covid hit, I was not allowed in her facility to see her.  This was not easy on either of us.  The last time I would see her in person was in 2019 and she just passed away in April of 2022.  BUT... that didn't stop my flowers.  I made special bouquets during the summer and brought them to her residence.  I was told that they brought a smile to her face and she knew who they came from.  

When she passed away, I chose not to go to the funeral.  I was given a link to watch it live, and watched it on my computer while I was at my mother's house not that far away from the activities.  There were a lot of reasons I didn't feel comfortable going to the funeral.  I don't need to list them all here.  I did get a chance to take some lilacs out to the grave after every one else had gone.  My mom has a shelter belt of lilacs so there were lots of blooms to pick from.  I filled up a bucket and went to the grave.  I stuck the lilacs in the dirt mound that remained.  It brought a fresh spring look to a rather desolate grave.  

I have been back since to visit my Mama Bernice's resting place.  Once I went by and I wasn't prepared with blooms from my garden, so I walked the perimeter of the grave yard and found something amid the wild weeds.  I didn't want to leave without at least a simple botanical offering of sorts.  

This week, I clipped another mix of flower blossoms from my garden - sweet peas, roses, lilies anything I found blooming and filled another container.  I brought a bouquet that my sister-in-law gave me and put that at the head, while I spread the container of colours over the remainder of her grave (see above picture).  

Grieving creatively really means connecting more personally with the loved one that is gone.   Finding a special place, finding something that is just about the griever and the grief and being unique in that grief, brings so much meaning into the journey. 

I could have done the funeral and graveside, for Mama Bernice, as so many did, but when it came to decide, I felt like my grief and sadness would have been lost in every one else's grief and sadness.  I understand the need for some to have a corporate grief ceremony.  It's not that I want to discourage it, it just isn't enough.  I need to carve out time, a place and memories that are just about me and my loved one.  In my grief and loss, I need to matter too.  

“There are no goodbyes for us. Wherever you are, you will always be in my heart.” — Mahatma Ghandi

WHEN WE DON'T BURY OR SPREAD THE ASHES

 The first time I was made aware that some people don't inter or spread the ashes of a loved one right away... it was a friend of the family.  Her name was Dorothy and the ashes belonged to her deceased husband.  I was a lot younger at the time and that confusing image stayed with me for a long time.  The prevailing questions in my mind were ... Why doesn't she bury or spread his ashes?   Why does she hang on to the remains? Is that weird? Am I supposed to be freaked out by that?  Is she holding on to her husband in an unhealthy manner?  So many questions and no courage or rudeness in me to ask her.  

I grew up being familiar with graveyards.  They made sense to me.  Bury your loved ones and go visit them.  That seemed normal.  It wasn't until I was an adult that I was introduced to the concept of cremation as a way to dispose of the remains.  Even then the story dictated that the remains were either buried or spread in some ritualistic fashion.  Hanging on to the ashes didn't make any sense to me... until it happened to me.  

In 2013, my husband and I had the painful experience of putting down our cat after he was diagnosed with a heart condition and wasn't recovering.  Tigger was family.  He was with my husband for ten years and with me for four of those ten years.  We discussed the options and went for cremation.  I don't really remember thinking of the reasons, but cremation seemed to be the best option.  Ashes are easier to deal with physically and emotionally.  It was him, but it wasn't.  

The day we put Tigger down, was the fifth anniversary of my Dad's passing.  I remember remembering and it seemed like just a side thought.  "Oh, it's five years since Dad died."  I think I was emotionally spent at that point, because I had just witnessed my first euthanizing.  I held Tigger as the vet "put him to sleep".  It wouldn't be until I picked up the ashes from the vet hospital a week later, that I released the hold on my emotions.  I held the bag with Tigger's ashes and just bawled.  Someone at the hospital had artfully decorated the bag with a drawing of a cat with wings and a quote that read. " Thinking of your beloved pet will hurt for a while, but the memories of the love you shared will one day replace the tears with a smile."  

Someone went above and beyond to honour Tigger and give us some encouragement in our loss.  I brought the bag home and we didn't discuss what to do with the remains.  So for a while, the bag was stored in my closet.  Then one day, my husband and I found a display cabinet at a garage sale and we took it home and put it in our bedroom.  What do to with that space was a subject of discussion, but eventually it became a place to put special memories and keepsakes.  I thought of our friend's remains that were out of sight, and I brought them out and put them in the middle of the cabinet.  The colourful packaging makes it a little less awkward.  It seems to belong there.  

We still haven't had the discussion about what to do with Tigger's ashes.  What we did was okay for us for now.  If anything, this has increased my compassion for others who don't inter or spread the ashes of their loved ones.  It seems that we all have our own stories and reasons for not doing what seems to be so normal.  I still can't give you a good reason why we hung on to the remains of our cat.  I don't think anyone else can fully verbalize what goes on in the soul of a being when they are faced with death.  We do strange things.  How do we cope best?  We do strange things which is just, I guess,  grieving creatively.  

"Time spent with a cat is never wasted." - Sigmund Freud

KEITH AND THE SUNFLOWERS

 

The first year I planted the Ben Garden in 2017, I found some volunteer sunflowers emerge amid the planted blooms.  I had used the stump as a bird feeder in the previous years before and some stray seeds found themselves in fertile ground and produced some amazing flowers. ( You can see pictures of those sunny blossoms in the video I shared in the post on the Ben Garden.)

Last year, our neighbour Keith, passed away from lung cancer.  His family had been living beside us for eight years, and I enjoyed our back yard connections, as our gardens shared space under the same sunny section of our block.  Only a chain link fence separated our yards, so we would often have chats over the fence when we were both seeding or weeding.  

Keith had an array of Sunflowers planted outside of his fence on the west side of his back yard.  They were often a joyful addition to back alley walks as we took in the smiling yellow faces.  

This year has been a painful one for me.  I miss my gardener neighbour.  His back yard food collection has been replaced by a grove of Canada Thistles.  I don't blame the family.  Maybe it was his thing and they just spend time with him when he was there.  Without the gardener, maybe the garden is too painful for them to spend time in.  I don't really know the whole story.  I only see the weeds and the lack of smiling sunflowers.  

I decided as a memory for Keith, I would plant my own sunflowers.  I had that in mind last year already.  I had ideas, but I ended up planting in the Ben Garden.  It seemed fitting that I would memorialize Keith in my memory garden.  I am sure Ben wouldn't mind.  The odd thing happened.  I found a stray sunflower growing in my beet patch.  I let it get a little bigger and then transplanted it to the Ben Garden.  That is the bloom in the above picture that just opened up this week.  The other sunflowers I seeded are coming up, but at a slower rate.  I have also noticed a few volunteer sunflowers coming up around the other crabapple tree and in the garden.  So I let them go.  I don't know if they will reach to fruition by the end of summer, but it seems a fitting tribute for my neighbour.  

Keith was not just my neighbour, but so many people's "neighbour", as he was the local Baptist pastor.  I never went to his church, but never felt judged for that.  It seemed okay that we had our community time over the fence as we talked about plants, vegetables and life.   When he told us that he had cancer, I wrote him a tribute poem called "The Backyard Pastor". 

Even through Keith hasn't been around for the continuation of my journey out of what was to what is, I think he would be one of the many who still liked me for who I was, not what I professed or how I processed an understanding of life.  Every time I see a sunflower, I remember my neighbour.  His sunny disposition carries on in those beautiful yellow blossoms.  

“When the heart grieves over what it has lost, the spirit rejoices over what it has left.” — Sufi

WHO IS SQUISHY?

(Please read this post first... "Where the Roadkill Rests") 

I sit alone in silence pondering how to process the latest lost.  Last night was anything but peaceful, but it was beautiful.  We had an amazing lighting storm.  I couldn't sleep so I found myself watching the light show.  I wanted it to end.  I wanted to sleep.  I wanted so many things in that moment.  Most of all, I wanted not to hurt and I wanted my husband not to hurt.  It seems like a futile desire in the world we live.  We get to hurt.  It is part of the package we call life.  

This morning I went out to the rain barrels.  I had forgot to put the downspouts down last night.  I have six rain barrels in operation in my yard.  Three big black barrels catch water from the eavestroughs (Canadian for rain gutters) and three smaller barrels I use as over flow.  The three smaller barrels were almost empty with some water in the bottom.  I went to put the downspouts down and I jumped back in shock.  In one of the barrels was a dead drowned squirrel.  I looked again and the only word coming into my head was "Squishy".  

In my previous post about Squishy, we eventually came to conclude that it wasn't our beloved squirrel that met its demise on the road that day.  But this morning, I am torn.  I don't know again if that squirrel is the same critter that took peanuts from my hand on a few occasions.  But every fibre of my being accepted it.  Squishy often travelled between the garage, the garden shed and the neighbour's fence.  But this morning it was storming, and maybe the travelling wasn't as easy for him.  Maybe, like me,  he too was scared.  How do I know?  I can only imagine.  

My first thought went to my husband.  How do I tell him?  We already went through the pain once.  Squishy has become a very precious part of our life.  We leave peanuts on our deck to feed him and enjoy his antics as he collects his harvest.  He often would sit on the deck and just eat.  It was quite the show.  How do I tell him?  Do I wait, hoping that our Squishy returns?  I put peanuts on the deck, hoping that I am wrong in my assumptions once again.  Right now... I don't know.  I just don't have the heart to bring this sadness to my husband right now.  Tomorrow we are going to spend the day with family, I don't want him to take this pain with him.  

I did what I did with the other squirrel and rabbit.  I laid this "Squishy" to rest by the other "Squishy" in my Saskatoon patch.  I put some peanuts in the hole.  They are roasted, so they won't grow, but I thought of the ancient Egyptian tradition of burying food with the departed so they would have something to eat on their journey to the afterlife.  It seems like a strange custom, but that is what came to mind... and those peanuts are our connection to Squishy.  I also cut flowers and put them in the hole and on top of the dirt.  

I remembered that I had marked the death of the last squirrel on the door of my garden shed.  I added today's date underneath it with a heart.  (see above picture) I looked at the cross that I had marked for the first "Squishy" and reminded myself that it meant something two years ago, but this year... not so much.  So I put a heart instead.  

Who is Squishy?  It seems that over the years we have called every squirrel Squishy.  Maybe it makes the pain of losing one of them a little easier.  We never lose Squishy, because there is always another one coming around later.  But it doesn't take the pain away.  It hurts to see what I saw this morning.  I can't get used to it, but maybe I'm not supposed to get use to it.  Maybe death is my constant reminder that today matters.  But our Squishy... ate peanuts from our hand, and wasn't scared of us.  I think we will know if it was our Squishy  We knew last time that it wasn't.  

My husband just came in to the office and was wondering what I was doing.  He knows I'm sad, but won't ask why.  He knows I can handle the sadness, but he's not as good at it.  If you are into the Enneagram, it is the difference between a 4 and a 7.  We have had to navigate a lot of sadness in the last thirteen years of our life together.  I wish I could spare him from most of it.  I can't.  I wonder if I have to tell him about this too.  I just think it's bad timing and we can't do much about it other than be sad.  Tomorrow is our annual trip to see his family, so sadness seems an intrusion.  We love Squishy, and if this was him, we will miss him.  But it won't be long... we will see another "Squishy" come around.  That is how nature works.  That is how nature heals.  

Here is a video I did of Squishy.  I published this on Youtube, two years ago...  one month before the first squirrel died. 

Disclaimer: My husband and I  have assumed in our conversation,  that Squishy is a he.  And I have made that assumption in my blog posts on Squishy.  We really don't know.  In the German language, the pronoun used for squirrel is gender neutral "Das Eichhörnchen".   Sadly, we don't have that in English.  

 "Given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief." — William Faulkner