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| Happy times at the beach with Mac (L) and Kodi (R) |
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| Family hike at Latourell Falls |
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| Mac and Kodi share a stick, one of thousands tossed for the boys at the river |
Cycles of Life and Death
Kodi died tonight at 6:25pm as Ron and I held him and I whispered in his ear over and over, "I love you, Kodi. I love you..." He was 11 years old and had been declining for some time. As I watched Kodi take his last labored steps into the vets this evening, so many memories flashed before me... Picking Kodi out of nine Golden Retriever pups at three weeks, then visiting him weekly until we were finally able to bring him home. All the countless shared ventures into nature -- at the ocean, the river, the forest, the mountains, the high dessert, and on and on. The precious quiet moments at home, just knowing he was here with us and feeling such gratitude. Also the times when Kodi was full on in opportunist and mischievous mode, challenging our patience... like the time he busted out of the yard and ran down the street, darting into our neighbor's kitchen and grabbing their leftover steak right off the counter and consuming it before anyone could blink. There were those moments, too, moments in which Kodi provided us with opportunities to cultivate greater patience and compassion and acceptance of the messy times that are also part of the package deal with all those we love.
And I reflect on Kodi's "brother" Mac, our yellow lab that we rescued when he was very young, and how inseparable they were. Until Mac died of bone cancer on August 29th, also at the age of 11. And now Kodi is gone. But I still find myself looking out onto the beauty of our jungle patio expectantly, searching for glimpses of our beloved boy. And I weep because I know I will never look out and see him there again.
I am grateful for my tears, which say I loved him so much. Our doggies and others - our human children, our spouses and partners, our friends and co-workers, our fellow human beings who don't see like we do or don't vote like we do, etc. etc. - can easily trigger us into forgetfulness. We forget the preciousness of life and that this being before us in any given moment is here, like we all are, for such a short time. Everything is impermanent. We are impermanent. Wouldn't it be so wonderful if we humans could catch ourselves when we forget how precious life is, how precious we all are?
My twin brother committed suicide on Monday, January 30th, 1978. I didn't cry until Thursday, three days later, and then for maybe half an hour. Then that was it... for years. I disassociated and distracted myself, slid into addictions and anything that took me away from myself. I didn't realize what I was doing, that I was cutting myself off from the great sacred web that weaves through myself and all of life. I was not conscious of the price I paid, as did those around me, for having said no to my heart, to befriending my own heart and all that is held there.
Death. I used to be terrified of death, of going anywhere near death. Death threatened to tear down the protective walls I had first started to construct as an infant. So when our first Golden Retriever was at the end with his cancer in 1979, our sons' dad and I took Brook to the vet and left him. There was no holding, no treasuring his last breathes, no comforting, no allowing our hearts to be broken open. No. We left as quickly as we could. We saw no alternative at the time. Instead it was time to go drink and numb out. There is no fault or blame with this. We all, each and every one of us, are doing the very best we can at any given time. As were Jim and I when we walked out of the vets back in 1979, leaving our first pup to die without us.
Today, right now in this very moment, I get to feel the utter ache in my heart. And I am grateful. Grateful to feel and to weep, to have allowed our Kodi and Mac, and others before them, into my heart. I love our boys. I love them with all my heart. And I always will. Our beloved four legged family members come to teach us so much, if we can but listen and allow their sweet tenderness and exuberance and joy and love into our hearts. And then take that sweetness out into the world and how it is that we relate with others and with ourselves and with how it is that we live our lives. Our pets teach us so much about love.
And these lessons are sometimes not easy to open to. In American society, we often don't do emotions and vulnerability and wholeheartedness and soulfully loving and caring for ourselves and others in a sustained and deepening way. We often don't do life and death very well. These are certainly the subtle and not so subtle messages and lessons that I learned in my family of origin and that our culture infused me with starting at birth. At an unconscious level I absorbed this belief system, this core fear, that if I allowed my heart to open, it would kill me. Paradoxically, the opposite was true.
These are pieces of what comes up for me spontaneously in the wake of this great loss of our beloved Kodi. There are all these interwoven threads of memories and awareness and emotion. And I am filled with gratitude and grief, my tears finding their way into each word, each memory, each tender moment. And I am mindful that I get to be tender today. Wow. I get to be tender today. Kodi and Mac and our other beloveds have been such sweet reminders of what really matters. Wag often, smile, and love with all our hearts. Because everything is impermanent and precious. Even the hard moments. It's all part of the greater whole, the precious greater whole of our lives.
And so our precious Kodi died today. An era has come to an end. A door has closed as a new one waits to open. In five days we bring home eight week old Shira. The cycle of life and death and rebirth continues, within as it is without. And so it is.
With deep, deep bow to Kodi... and to us all...
❤ Molly
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| Our baby Shira, who Ron and I will bring home Saturday |
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