I'm Butch

 

(thanks for the inspiration Porl)

"You could stop, you know...you could just quit...", he said. "You have enough money, you don't need the stress." I had a big week ahead of long, long days and nights with the global team arriving that morning. I kept looking at my phone nervously. He noticed. This was the part of the lunch with my friend I always dreaded...the part when he tells me all the mistakes I make. It can take a long time.

He was right. I could stop. I could just quit. I have enough money. I don't need the stress. He was right. He's usually right.  So why didn't I??

He described the life he imagined I would have if I quit...idyllic days and nights filled with warm and comforting family times. Good conversations, good food.  Good times. Hearing him tell it it sounded great.

I wish it was always like that but frankly it isn't. Relationships are hard work sometimes, even relationships with your kids. Life at home is not always peaceful and comforting. Sometimes, to be honest, it is easier and more comforting to be in the office. He conceded that. He rarely concedes anything.

I told him what I missed most. What comforted me most. What was always glad to see me, welcomed me at the door, never judged me or criticized me. What loved me unconditionally. Not what...WHO.

My Butch.

Butch is what I miss most, what I was always looking to come home to. I miss sitting on the couch with him nestled in my lap, or lying down with him snuggled next to me, his little nose breathing softly. It's not the same since he has gone. It never will be. Nothing and no one could ever replace him. I told my friend with tears in my eyes. I held Butch at the exact moment when he died, right there in my arms. When he went I wanted to go with him...I didn't want to be left behind...it hurt too much.

That's when my friend dropped the bomb." Now you are Butch", he said. My jaw dropped. I tried to process it.

"You really are", he continued. "Now it's your turn to be there to love and comfort others. Now it's your job to welcome everyone home and to give them the same unconditional love Butch gave you." By this point the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I was starting to have trouble breathing. My chest felt heavy, tight.

"The best way to honor and remember him is to take the best parts of what he meant to you and live them for others. If you do this, Butch will always live on. Not just in your heart and in your thoughts but in your actions as well."

He was right of course. He's usually right. I hate when he's right. It is a blessing to have really smart and wise friends to advise me, but sometimes it's also a pain in the ass.

No, I'm not quite done grieving for Butch. However, the love, support and advice from my friends is helping me deal with it and learn to move forward.

I'll try to be Butch.

It Hurts

 

(I managed to find a picture showing exactly where it hurts - haha)

痛いです。(it hurts). Last week Wednesday I found out I have a pinched nerve in me neck/shoulder. What happened?  Maybe it was the cheap seats on the plane ride back from Taipei. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was bad posture at the computer for long hours.  No idea.

How did I find out? It started as a dull, numbing pain, like what you get after too much exercise. By Thursday it was much more - like being stabbed in the trapezius and the knife being slowly twisted back and forth. The pain was deep and completely unbearable. It would spasm, and the pain made my eyes water. I couldn't sleep because I would roll onto that side and the pain would wake me up. I could work (yes I still had deadlines to meet and meetings to do) but only 15-20 minutes at a time and would then have to lie down until the pain subsided. I kept my camera off during meetings so they wouldn't see my face grimace when it would spasm. I went to the clinic on Saturday and the doctor gave me two weeks of pain meds (Voltaren 25mg capsule - in case Dr. Jay reads this). It hasn't helped. It still hurts as I write this.

Guro David kept talking about acceptance when we were at the Legacy Camp in September. It was such a beautiful time, with beautiful souls. Walks and talks, sharing and openness, perfect weather, nature, great music, days of intense training with world-class instructors, delicious food with the best human beings. The power, the connection, the energy was so high and so complete. I felt seen, loved, respected. I felt HOME. It was one of the best experiences of my life. When life is good it's so easy to talk about acceptance. Who wouldn't accept such perfect days and nights?? We nod our heads and smile and think "yes, I could accept this. This life...of course".

But now I am in pain constantly. The question I keep asking is "Can I accept this?" It's a much harder question. Part of me wants to run away, escape, hide, cry. "Can I accept this?" YES  As a Buddhist, and as Guro David explained, acceptance is a requirement to be in the moment. Right here, right now. Even if it hurts, it's very important to acknowledge that pain, accept it as a natural part of life, and allow it to run its course. Yes, sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. However, sometimes it also feels good and I feel happy. The practice of Zen is designed to help us understand that we should not be obsessed or attached to such things because no matter what they are, they are temporary - just as we are, too.

For many of us, there is psychological/emotional pain as well. Sometimes together with physical pain, sometimes on its own. Like physical pain, emotional pain can be debilitating if we let it. Sometimes, the emotional pain is far worse because it can stay longer and exist unseen to the people around us. Mental health is every bit as important, if not more so, than physical health. Sadly, sometimes the emotional pain can cause us to want to run away permanently. Physical pain can do this too, and there is a real discussion to be had about dignity in death and assisted suicide for those with terminal illness, for example. I sincerely hope this is never a consideration for those with psychological/emotional pain. Good, expert mental health care is critically important. 

Over the past weeks, I have transitioned from emotional pain (grief over losing my Butch) to physical pain (pinched nerve). Not the best of times. Still, I remain positive. My training helps me remain calm even though it hurts. I take deep breaths and I focus. I know it will pass. My grief, my pain are all just steps on a path and soon I will step forward from them and leave them behind. One day I will leave it all behind, so until then I want to keep moving forward toward where I need to go - my mission. I won't let pain stop me.

They say faith is worthless until it is tested. Then testing is a good thing. Now I know. I am strong. I am unbreakable. I am a Peaceful Warrior.

See you at class.

Good Grief

 

These days, I grieve.

I lost my dog, Butch, at 15 years old a few weeks ago and I am still sad about it. The grief is not a constant flood of tears like it was in the first few days after it happened. Still, not a single day goes by that I don't think about him or miss him. I listen for his footsteps and reach over to pet him where he used to be, right next to me. Always. I feel a profound emptiness.

Everyone has tried to console me these past few weeks and I am very grateful for that. They tell me how lucky I was. How I was lucky to enjoy so many years with such a good boy (I know). They tell me how lucky I was that he went quickly, that I was there to hold him in his last moments, watching him take his final breath. They tell me how lucky I am that I wasn't at work or on a business trip or at the store or anywhere else.  They tell me how lucky I am that he didn't die alone at the vet. They tell me how lucky I am that he knew how much we loved him and treasured him.  He knew how important he was and how much his life mattered to us. All this is true. I do feel lucky. But honestly, it doesn't help much.

I grieve. And that's OK. In fact, I think grief is good.

Grief is only possible when we care; when we love. I have only ever felt grief for those very close to me. The worst were my foster parents. Then my foster brother. Losing them felt like being shot or stabbed. When my foster mom died and my foster dad called to tell me the news (in all my years in Japan he only called once) I felt real physical pain. I fell to the ground wailing and I couldn't move. My friend had to come and stay with me for a few days since I couldn't even get out of bed. It's funny when I realize I spent more time with Butch than I did with my foster mom. The pain was the same but I am 30 years older and more resilient now. I have tried not to let my heart harden and to remain compassionate. I think after everything I am more able to accept my emotions and allow them their place.

We all deal with grief in our own way, and there is no set recipe for getting through it. Likewise, there is no  timeline or timetable that can help us. It takes as long as it takes and it hurts as much as it does.

For some, the pain is unbearable and they try to escape it through drinking, taking drugs, fucking. Whatever. Any kind of love or pleasure to combat the overwhelming feelings of pain and loss. Anything to try and fill up the emptiness. I get it. I can't judge anyone else for how they deal with grief. To each their own I suppose.

I don't want to run away or look away. I don't want to escape the pain. In fact, I want it. I want to feel it all. Completely. I know that the only way is to go forward. Through the pain and emptiness to the other side. If I allow distraction in whatever form it will just take that much longer to heal. There are no shortcuts or lifehacks or tricks for this. There is only patience and time, as much as it takes.

Life in martial arts, especially when it is anchored in Zen practice, helps. We are no strangers to death since we study it intimately. The Path tells us that it can be our time anytime on any day, and Zen encourages us to be in the moment fully so as not to experience regret when that moment comes, and it will come for all of us. Certainly my Butch lived in the moment. Zen is not morbid, only accepting of death as part of the natural order of things, not to be feared but to be remembered and reflected upon in order to give this impermanent life greater meaning and purpose. In Buddhism we consider the soul as immortal and so the loss of the physical form can be thought of more as a transition back to our natural state, Light. Once Butch died I no longer thought of his physical body, which we cremated the following day. His sprit had left and that shell was empty. He was free, his mission fulfilled. I know this and it comforts me, but only a little. The pain is still great. He was such an important part of this phase of my life. So many precious memories.

I miss you, little one. I think I always will. and that's OK. Grief is good.