This month, I’m writing posts from prompts in the Writing Down the Bones Card Deck by Natalie Goldberg, shared with me by my friend Barb Edler of Iowa. Yesterday may be the most challenging topic on any given day lately. It all seems to blend together when every aspect of life is full tilt and you can’t even remember if you saw the light of day.
Yesterday
Death of a parent. Paperwork. Funeral planning. Cleaning out the house. Paperwork. Preparing for an estate sale. Sorting seven storage rooms. Life insurance. Paperwork. Executoring. Trusteeing. Video: grandson loses a tooth! Smile. Paperwork. School starting. Job description changing. Paperwork. TSH high. Synthroid increase. New prescription. Paperwork. Complicated spreadsheets. Meetings. Weight Gain. Paperwork. FaceTime: baby grandson sits up and accidentally says, “Nana” clear as day. Joy tears. Sleep. Wake. Strength for today. One day at a time. Sigh.
This month, I’m writing posts from prompts in the Writing Down the Bones Card Deck by Natalie Goldberg, shared with me by my friend Barb Edler of Iowa. Today’s topic is to share four memories of silence. I chose a list poem for this prompt.
When Dad died, my brother and I wanted his sweet dog Kona to understand why he’d suddenly disappeared from her life.
It’s a lot.
It’s heavy.
I’m putting space between my words and the photo today in an intentional way so you have time to back out if you don’t want to go with me all the way to the truth. You can still jump off at the edge of it.
Here’s the bottom line: Dad wanted the story of Kona shared. People were asking. It was, without a doubt, his most painful part of his passing. He held a deep love for every dog he’d ever had, but none was more special than Kona.
Kona dropped into his life straight out of heaven. No one gets a pedigreed Schnoodle for free. But that’s what happened on a night when I was too sick to sleep in my own bed, so I took to the guest room so I wouldn’t keep my husband awake. I was scrolling Facebook and noticed in a Schnoodle page a post from a desperate owner who was going through a divorce and could not keep his dog. He was looking for a lifeline, and he found it in me. Dad had recently had to put down the last of the dogs he and our mother shared. Her final understandable words to him were, “You take care of these dogs.” That’s how it was, and Ken and I knew it the day we went home and saw that our framed photos had been replaced with pictures of Mulligan and Georgia Girl.
We get it. Dogs are much easier to love than even our own children.
I summoned my husband to drive me to Valdosta so I could pick up a dog. I tag teamed with my brother to deliver her to our father and gave him 48 hours to accept or reject her, with the full understanding I would take her back in a heartbeat. The truth: I came very close to keeping her and never giving him the option of keeping this joyful little sweet girl.
But when the man stepped out of his truck, a guidance counselor from a Florida high school meeting me halfway at the distance between us and in full tears, unable to say a word other than to hand me the pup and all her belongings, he was wearing a Florida State University t-shirt. My mother had gone to Florida State. It was a sign.
This free dog was being handed to our father by our mother, and I knew it.
Dad fell in love with Kona from the moment he saw her, but he toyed with us at first. On his deathbed, he declared her “the best gift ever.” He took her everywhere, including Winn Dixie, where he grocery shopped. If Kona didn’t go, he didn’t go – the exception being church. She knew when he put his good shoes on that she would have to stay, and she pouted in the chair as he readied himself.
Kona kept Dad going and bought him years beyond the usual. He bonded with dog park friends, who had their own section at his funeral. He held ceremonies in that dog park for departed pets.
Fast forward to the end.
I was expecting to welcome Kona into our fold with our three Schnoodles – Boo Radley, Fitz, and Ollie. But Dad flipped the script, calling his dog park friend Ann to the hospital as he was dying, introducing my brother and me to her, and explaining that Kona was to remain with Ann, who had told him that “as long as there is Kona, I will always have a piece of you.” Her husband, Andy, was good with that. Theirs was a unique friendship.
I respected and appreciated that Kona would stay with her tribe – the people and dogs and places she loves.
When we’d arrived back at the hospice facility after Dad died, they had him covered in a yellow blanket with a Bible verse embroidered on the corner. Ken asked if I had any ideas for that blanket, a gift from hospice. I suggested recycling it, but Ken said, “No, they’re proud of this. Let’s give it to Kona. It will hold his scent for her.”
He was right. We arranged for the new owner to bring Kona to the funeral home for a last visit with her master she’d loved so dearly. We wanted her to understand that Dad hadn’t abandoned her willfully – – that there was a reason he’d left, and it was beyond his control. We asked the funeral home not to launder the blanket – and after a quizzical look, we explained why.
Ann arrived with Kona, and my brother took her in for one last visit with Dad before he was buried. I’d love to post all of the photos I have so that you could see the progression of an excited dog checking out the owner she surely thought at first was asleep, but those photos probably violate every social media rule of respect for the dead. But the most telling one, I cropped. The eyes tell it all, if you choose to scroll and see.
This, my friends, is what is silent in response to the prompt card today: What is Silent?
What is silent
is a beloved
companion pet
understanding
that her master
is gone
forever
and showing
her broken heart
through her eyes.
That is what is silent.
(Please scroll down for the photo – which will show the story as Dad would have wanted folks to see and understand. Many have asked. Kona is in good hands. Kona will have a new family to help her through her grief. But she knows. She knows.)
After excitedly checking out Dad in his casket, Kona realizes the truth. You can see it in her eyes as she assures my brother Ken that she understands what has happened.
This month, I’m starting the journey of writing through 60 cards from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, introduced by my writing group sister Barb Edler of Iowa. Last month, our small group of Stafford Challenge writers (Denise Krebs, Glenda Funk, Barb Edler and I) wrote using one of the cards, and this month – just last night on our Zoom writing call – we wrote using the prompt on another one. Today, the prompt is simply What I’m Looking At. I used those words to get started and let them meet me exactly where I was in that moment.
This month, I’m working on finding the blessings after a month of sharing Dad’s journey through his final days. On the other side of grief, if there is a proverbial corner we turn, with joy that comes in the morning – – just like the Bible promises. One of the things that helps me find the joy is writing about the little miracles I see happening and the little smiles that come out of nowhere like urgings to notice a particular thing and think about what it means in the grand scheme of it all. I’m using Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones cards between now and the end of the year to try to write through all 60 of them, introduced to me by my friend Barb Edler of Iowa.
Today’s card, #2, piggybacks to yesterday’s card about What I’m Thinking Of……and flips the script to what I’m not thinking of.
The day before I turned 59, I’d just arrived at my brother and sister-in-law’s house after the five hour drive to the coast of Georgia, where I’d spent most of the summer as our father’s illness took a southward turn and he’d joined our mother in Heaven. I am blessed beyond measure that my brother and I get along so well and share a bond that is rooted in caring deeply about each other and honoring the wishes of our parents – and a sister-in-law I wouldn’t trade for the world. After my brother’s many years of waiting for his soul mate, she’s that long-awaited life partner who, while grieving her own father’s loss two months before ours, is helping steer our ship and keeping us focused on what lies ahead. Ken and Jennifer greeted me and helped me bring in my bags – the suitcase and clothes for deep cleaning Dad’s house. I’d had just enough time to hug them hello and pour a glass of Riesling before logging on to meet with a group of writing friends.
At our monthly small-group Stafford Challenge writers’ Zoom in July, my friend Barb Edler of Iowa introduced our writing topic that evening. Here we were ~ Glenda Funk in Idaho, Denise Krebs in California, Barb Edler in Iowa, and me in Georgia – connecting the state dots in a wonky square on the map but connecting squarely with each other after years of writing friendship. We know each other better than most friends who see each other day because ink is our family bloodline ~ we’re writers and readers of each others’ lives. So when Barb brought out the Writing Down the Bones Card Deck by Natalie Goldberg, she gave us a license to pour out onto the page whatever was on our minds.
The card said, “Begin with ‘I’m thinking of…’ and every time you get stuck, simply come back again to ‘I’m thinking of’ and keep going.”
We did, and we shared. I expressed how much I enjoyed those cards, and a few days later, Barb asked if she could get them for me for my birthday. Since Amazon Prime Days had rolled around, I’d already ordered them, so I confessed I’d bought the set for myself as a gift. Imagine my surprise when a few days later, a box arrived at the door. Barb knows my affinity for postcards and garden fairies, and here was a gift of sheer delight to bring joy to my spirit. I placed the fairies in the front porch plants and began coloring one of the peace-bringing adult coloring postcards designed to help regulate breathing and give the mind rest.
Today, a listish prose poem of all the things I’m thinking of……
I'm Thinking Of
I'm thinking of how my brother and I showed up at Probate Court and the one who gave us the oath noticed that we weren't like all the rest because she said our deep care for each other was visible, not like those fighting ones who get mad if the other gets more than they do ~ and I'm thinking of how I was deeply touched that she could see that my brother and I are more focused on making new memories together, us and our spouses, than quarreling over a set of dishes neither of ever intends to actually use because we'd rather be cruising around Iceland with just a carry-on bag in a pair of familiar blue jeans and worn tennis shoes than having holes in our hearts at our own tables, pouring coffee from an antique Pyrex stovetop percolator that isn't even practical and having no one to remember our lives with. I'm thinking of how now, we're who each other has to remember all the history.
I'm thinking of when my sister in law popped around the corner of the sofa with a birthday cake with my name on it, and she and my brother sang Happy Birthday to me, knowing full well that even spending the day cleaning Dad's house and busting our asses and being sore, there was nowhere I'd rather be that day than with them, even if we weren't out exploring the world making new memories. Because these, too, were new memories - the cleaning and cussfests about all the stuff, all the stuff, all the random impractical collectibles and moldy books, and the sweat and grime of togetherness - this, too, is its own adventure and memory that will never be forgotten.
I'm thinking of how my writing sisters, the three I meet with monthly and the others I call or who write in different circles with, know me better than the people I see every day because the book is always better than the movie, and with writing relationships people know exactly how you feel and what you're thinking in a way that the face to face ones just have to guess about why you raise one eyebrow from time to time or massage your right temple, never really knowing why and never even asking. I'm thinking of how we read each other's blogs and are such an eclectic mix of personalities from vastly different walks of life with trauma, sadness, blessing, empathy, understanding, passion, and soft spots of the heart that draw us together as humans and fascinate us about our worlds, and yet how at the end of the day, we are as alike as it gets, as writers. Just like how Maya Angelou explained us in The Human Family. We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike. Maya knew. She knew.
I'm thinking of how much more there is to write about and how just this one card conjures every invitation, every memory, to want to be unfolded and to flow from brain to screen as this is happening now, right through my fingertips tapping out the rhythms of life on an Apple MacBook Air keyboard that really is the conduit to healing in all forms, this thinking and tapping and pausing for breath of thought........
And I'm wondering what others are thinking of today and whether they need a card with a prompt to invite them to share, and whether someone would call 911 if I picked a random stranger in WalMart and walked up and asked them what they were thinking of and they said they were thinking I was insane so I needed to be apprehended and taken in for questioning.
I’ve taken a month to share the stories of Dad’s final days and the stories and wisdom he imparted. Today, I am stepping into the month of August with a deliberate departure from these somber daily reflections that have been a central part of my mornings in July. I’ll celebrate the small joys in nature and the blessings and focus on these for August before returning with the story of Kona, Dad’s dog, near the end of the month. Sharing the stories was a helpful way to begin the grieving process, but shifting the focus to a month of looking for the blessings is my intentional choice this month – even if it’s just getting through a tough day.
In Dad’s final days, he shared stories, words of wisdom, and prayers with us that we will carry with us for the rest of our days. I’ve devoted the month of July specifically to sharing so many of these. There’ll be plenty more in the coming months, but not as a daily energy the way that July has been. I’ve needed this sustained time and focus for the grieving process to occur, and it has served its purpose in moving me through some emotions that needed exercise.
Sometime in August, I’ll attempt to find the strength of emotion to share the story of Dad’s dog, Kona, and her visit to the funeral home to visit Dad one last time – – so that she could understand the truth of what happened.
For now, I’m sharing the audio clip urging Dad to release and take the journey to his final destination. I’m also sharing the link to his obituary and slide show of photos. He was buried in his Georgia Bulldog cap that his friend Nick Doster gave him the night before he died, his doctoral robe, the Denny’s Save the Children necktie made by my son from my youngest daughter’s feet that won the national art contest, and a shirt belonging to Ken’s wife’s son.
Perhaps the greatest comfort we find is that Dad died with his arms stretched Heavenward, reaching for all those who love him, who have been waiting on the other side. We know they were there, reaching down to guide him and to greet him, after all his years of standing in the pulpit sharing with others the gospel and the promise of eternal life we know in salvation.
In Dad’s final days, we recorded some audio clips that will keep him close to us and help us process this consuming grief we are feeling. My brother and I spent countless hours by his side as he reluctantly shifted his weight from this world to Heaven to be with our mother again, a lot like a kid being dropped off for summer camp who wants to go but keeps coming back for one more reassuring hug before being able to go pick a bunk. His words here are powerful reminders to do things while we still can.
There are lessons on this side in the moment of hearing Dad’s recorded words spoken, but there are the realities of this on the other side, once a person has left this world, in seeing so many things that did not get finished. We see it in the unfinished projects, the bookmarks, the tasks, the notes, and the paperwork. My brother stood in the shed last weekend and held up an ornate wooden spindle: for the stair rail we were going to refinish back in the 1980s, he explained. It struck me in a visual way when I walked in his kitchen and saw the Lazy Susan still on the counter, covered in shot glasses that were filled with his medicine doses. That’s how he organized his medicines for the week. I gave it a spin and watched it whirl, then slow, then stop.
Then, I discarded each pill and stacked the glasses in the box I was packing to be donated, wondering where each would land beyond its purpose here in the grand scheme of their own lives as medicine cups before I moved on to the next counter and the cabinet after that and the shelves after that.
How quickly a life shuts down and the physical space once occupied becomes a hollow cavity. A dumpster. A donation box. An estate sale. A few memorable pieces tucked into the folds of our own homes as reminders that what matters truly are the memories – – not the stuff.
In Dad’s final days, as he explained the speakers’ directives for his funeral, he told me it was my job to tell them that he would haunt them if they went over their allotted time. My brother explained why that might not be such a good idea.
Common Threads 