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.