Like many of you, I've had a lot of loss in my
life. There are times, when the loss seems overwhelming. If I get caught up in
the “what ifs” and the “if only-s” I can find myself spiraling down into a place
that sometimes takes days to get out of.
Now my losses are not nearly as bad as some
that other people have survived. I know this. I try to keep that in mind. But
sometimes, when you are in the middle of a really good pity-party you just
don’t want to be reminded to count your blessings. You just need to wallow for
a little while. Not too long, but sometimes the best way to get over pain, once
and for all, is to feel it, acknowledge it and then let it go.
As Spring comes and plants start to bud and kids
and dogs appear outside, I sometimes start thinking about the things I really,
really miss. When you get divorced people ask all kinds of questions that are
supposed to help. Do you miss him? Do you miss your old life? Do you miss the
house your kids grew up in? Do you wish you’d stayed longer, waited to sell the
house, gotten custody of the dog?
The truth is the only thing I’d go back and do
over is who got the dog. I thought there’d be shared custody and lots of
visits. There haven’t been, not nearly enough. I made the mistake of moving to
an apartment that won’t let me have pets and he made it clear that, once the
check cleared and the deed was filed, I was no longer welcome in the house we
raised our family in.
But a house is only a home when it's filled
with the people you love.
I really miss him . . . the dog that is.
I miss coming home to his tail wagging, always happy to see me no matter what
type of day we both had. I miss him sleeping on the end of the bed. I miss his
warm, fuzzy little head. I miss his devotion and his unconditional love. I miss
watching him throw himself against the windows in a frenzy every time another
dog dared to walk down his street. I miss his optimism, believing that just
maybe this will be the time he catches that squirrel even if every other
attempt has failed. I miss sitting in the sun on the back porch with him on a
lazy summer afternoon.
I also really miss my gardens. I miss the hope
that comes with planting a Tulip or a Daffodil bulb in the fall and believing
that it will survive, way deep down under the dirt and the snow, and bloom
again the next Spring. I miss the perennials I planted; the Iris, Lilies,
Clematis and Peony, a few more each year, with the faith that they would
survive a long Maine winter and bloom again. I miss the old Lilac bush that
came with the house and the Forsythia that I planted and watched grow from tiny
saplings to a giant hedge that bloomed bright yellow every spring.
I miss these things that I could always count
on; my spring gardens and my warm beagle. No matter what happened, no matter
who else had let me down, no matter how hard life got, the garden kept blooming
and the dog met me at the door when I got home.
What I have come to realize, as I pull myself
up and out of this difficult time, is that my roots have nothing to do with the
house I lived in or the gardens I tended. As beautiful as they all were,
the real roots I planted are still mine. They are the children I raised there,
and the adults they have become. They have each drifted off like seeds on a
light wind, to settle in gardens of their own, to make lives of their own, and
they are healthy and safe and growing just fine.
The parts of my own life, the things that I
love to nurture, aren’t gone. They are just below the surface, waiting safely
until the time is right, to bloom again.
and maybe I can find a way to spend more time
with the Beagle.
This piece originally appeared in the Bangor Daily News, Postcards from a Work in Progress, March 25, 2012.
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