Seeing Ghosts and the Addiction of Solitude

Sunset at Higgins Beach

Dear Pepsi,

Time continues to pass; however, not one day goes by without thoughts of you flooding my head and heart. The longing does not subside. I continue to tear up at the mention of your name. I am not the only one missing you though, Pearly has changed. She will not play with Pandy as she once did. I watched old videos from the beach and she would always play with Pandy; however, she brushes her off and refuses to engage. She starts barking for no apparent reason and I cannot sooth her when she gets agitated like this. Your Papa said dogs can see "haints", as ghosts are referred to in the South, and that got me thinking about Pearl seeing your ghost. Are you with us Peps? Is she barking to let me know you are here? I look up and see you in your usual spots. On the couch with your head propped up on the armrest, nestled beside me in bed, romping in the water, on the rug in the main bathroom. I often pause, stop dead in my tracks and inhale deeply with closed eyes to receive your energy. If only I could pull you back through the void so I could hold you close, watch you and Pearl play, and cater to your diva ways. 

Peps look alike at the Portland Women's March

I went to the Women's March in Portland last Saturday. Millions of people across the globe marched to protect women's rights and denounce Trump and his policies. We have much to fear over the damage he can cause over the next four years and it will require unyielding resistance. It was amazing how many people turned out, though on a lighter note there quite a few Golden Retrievers, including a sweet nine year old boy who reminded me of you. I spoke with the mom and told her about you as I caressed him and cradled his face close to mine. I showed her pictures of you on my phone and told stories about you that made me chuckle and cry at the same time. When I mentioned cancer her eyes widened - not HSA she asked?  She told me about her other Golden who died in one day when they discovered a large tumor on his spleen. I'm not sure what is worse she said, loosing him in one day or over six weeks knowing he is terminal. I don't know either I told her, but for sure the end result is heartbreaking regardless if it is one day or one month. I hugged him tight before saying goodbye. As I walked away his mom called out your name in a tribute to you. I raised my hand and waved back to her, whispering Pepsi girl I miss you so as I moved through the crowd.

Pandy and Pearl keeping your spot warm

Pepsi I want you to know we are hanging in there despite our grieving. I manage a smile, give your sisters lots of hugs and kisses, and tell them how much I love them. We cuddle, take long walks, play with toys, and spend large quantities of time together since I am fortunate to work at home. They lay at my feet as you did, dozing on and off, rousing to go outside or lure me to play. I don't want you to worry about us, and while I will not lie about how hard it is to slog though life without you, I hope you can find peace from fretting about us. I was a loner before and more of one now. Chuck once said that solitude is addictive and as I get older I crave more and more time alone. Having you girls fills the space once occupied by kids or friends. You all have been my emotional center for over a decade. The idea of going out seems appealing until the time to go approaches and I opt out. My energy is limited, and my tolerance for small talk has been greatly reduced, particularly with the current political situation. I worry I might fly off the handle so I tend to measure myself in relation to the world and be strategic about how I spend time outside of teaching and work obligations. I walk through the door to your sisters and that seems to be more than enough to buffer the potential for loneliness. I sit in the quiet watching children play on the street. I was once a mom dancing to the rhythm of my kids, in constant motion; however, now time feels dense as solitude blankets me. But I am never alone as long as I have my girls. And my memories of you Pepsi girl, my darling soul dog.

Pepsi, my soul dog

Twenty-five years ago I painted a series about dream doors, inspired by the thresholds we cross from place to place in a spiritual, physical, emotional, and relational way. The paintings were a metaphor for the doors that open and close, the heartbreak we experience and the courage it takes to move forward and turn those doorknobs into the great unknown. I made dream doors for my kids, my friends and even gave them to strangers if I felt they needed them. We are galvanized and bolstered by those who believe in us more than we do ourselves. Or perhaps by those who lay at out feet through thick and thin, waiting for us as we walk through the door day after day, as flawed and fantastic as we may be. We bend and break, rebound and hold ourself upright, but never alone, no matter how deeply we cherish our solitude. You kept me from falling off the face of the earth as I delved into the deep space of writing and painting, pulled me out when my reclusive tendencies were hard to resist. There was always a beach, a park, or a walk to be taken and your insistence was not to be ignored. You balanced my universe and helped me shoulder the weight of the world Pepsi girl, and now I find myself struggling for footing without you. 

  Jonathan's Dream Door

So if Papa is right and Pearl is seeing your haint then perhaps I am not crazy. I will take whatever I get of you. Watch over us and know that when I cross the threshold from this dream door to the one where you are we will be together again. Until that time, know how much you are loved and missed. 

Love you Pepsi girl,

Mom

No Past Tense

Dear Pepsi,

I know, it has been a while since I have written to you; however, not a day goes by without me talking to you or looking through your picture book. I still tear up at the mention of your name or when people express their sympathy for your passing. What a strange way to describe death - passing. You have not passed at all. There is no past tense when it comes to you. I touch your collar that drapes over the corner of my easel and run my fingers over your pink harness that hangs on the hook in the half bath. I talk to Pearl about you every day. I see you in the corner of every room, reach for you on the couch and in bed at night. Being with your sisters brings me joy and lifts my heart; however, your absence has created a permanent hole that will never be filled. Last week I was in California with your biological brother Aslan, which was some comfort since you two look so much alike; however, your personalities are so different. Aslan came to us 4 years ago as a surrender, his gratitude and chill are a sharp contrast to your diva-ness and sense of entitlement. I wrapped my arms around him several times day whispering I love you Peps' Bother.

Aslan and Mom

I turned 60 a week ago. It was a bittersweet occasion/celebration. I traveled to California since 60 is a milestone birthday and wanted to be with Rena and Jonathan. It rained almost non stop for the entire week save the last day. I felt off - tired, cold, sad, and a bit lost. I missed Pearl and Pandy. I thought about you a lot since your life with us began in that house. I wanted to write but the space wouldn't hold me. I had so may years in that house when I felt myself bursting at the seams. I was a young mom, dazed and confused, painting and writing my way down the hallway on a 30 ft scroll I tacked to the wall. My life was divided into several pieces and identities - mother, artist, social worker. By the time you arrived on the scene I thought I had sewed it up with my kids off to college and law school. I had a plan to buy a condo in Oakland and downsize, travel more and focus on my art. You unraveled all that when I fell in love with you at first sight. I continued to travel for my annual sojourns to Greece and Europe to paint; however, you were my reason to come home. Then came Pearl, and eventually Pandy when we lived in Austin. Would life have been simpler if I refused Jonathan's request for a dog? Of course, but how could it even be considered better without you my darling girl? Opening our hearts to love is always a risk, yet what you gave me all these years was well worth the freedom I gave up. I would do it all over again gladly given the chance. 

Pepsi the Diva

I have continued to paint the Monologue of Grief series. It is an abstract dialog unrestrained by form, words or concrete concepts. I dive in the colors led by emotion. It has to be abstract because I cannot get my arms around the fact that you were here and then gone, so quickly and unexpectedly. I can talk about the chronology of events or even how I feel, which typically ends with tears streaming down my face, even in the grocery store with strangers attempting to comfort me, but it still makes no sense. I talked to Chuck the other day and we floated the idea of how this really belongs in a another dimension, where the concept of death and grief might be able to be discussed with more clarity but in this part of the earth and consciousness we are at a loss for description or comprehension. I have been writing to you since the cancer diagnosis and still after your death. Pepsi you are here in some form or the other, I just don't know how it translates to where my body currently resides. I haven't touched you there yet but I want to. I write you letters on this blog, apply thick layers of paint to paper, talk out loud to you daily, and reach for you in empty spaces. When the world hurts me you are not there to cushion the blow. In fact your death has sharpened my edges. I measure everything against the gravity of your loss, so you can imagine how that has played out. I want less and see little point in enduring foolishness. Time is limited, people can leave in a flash and there is less reason to extend myself unless it really matters. If there is a past tense of Pepsi, then that is the extent of it, otherwise you are very much in my here and now in this dimension and any other.  So you will keep hearing from me.

Love and miss you baby girl,

Mom

Monologue of Grief Series