Reluctance

When to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

 –Robert Frost, “Reluctance”

Greetings Dear Ones!

All day long yesterday, I wanted to write to you but the day slithered out of its corner and dragged me around the pen a few times, like the big strong lambs I was trying to vaccinate.  First, there was an “emergency” wedding suit to alter for a man who is leaving town today, then the vet came and there were oxen toenails to trim, ram lambs to castrate before the colder nights made them feel too amorous towards their aunts and mothers, and the entire flock to vaccinate for rabies.   Just after lunch, there was a moving communal tribute, “a celebration of life,” to a beloved Boston Irish Music icon to attend via an online link with fellow mourners who could not attend in person.  At some point, I learned that my dearest shepherdess friend, whom I speak to daily, collapsed and had to be taken in to hospital for urgent brain surgery tomorrow.  They have discovered a tumor.

And of course, there is all ‘the world news’—the horrors of Ukraine and Isreal and our hobbled Congress  to fret over and worry about. 

From the little dog in my lap (who is in progressive congestive heart failure), to the ever-widening circles of home, family, community, world, there are endless opportunities to choose--fear or gratitude?  Pity or prayer?  Action or acceptance?  What can be changed? What cannot be changed? What is the difference?

At moments like this, my favorite thing to do is Nothing.  I can do Nothing with the best of them.  I also happen to have one of those amazingly comfortable bums, like Lori Chapman, who says: “I like nothing more in the world than sitting on my ass doing nothing. And it’s not my fault I have this attitude because I happen to have an amazingly comfortable ass.  It may not look like much, but if you could sit on this baby for two minutes, you’d realize that getting off this ass would be a crime against nature.”

But sitting on my bum gets pretty hard sometimes, especially when I hear a certain kind of knocking at the door.  I know exactly who it is, so I run. I do not want to answer that door.

I run to the field, which is littered with stones, and fill wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow with rocks the size of fists and drag them to the edge of the roadway.  I rake. I sweep. I shovel.  I go to war against the brambles.   I run to the barn and clean it.  I run to the shop and get swept up in deadlines and projects.  I run errands.  Then I just run…on a treadmill…in the basement…going nowhere as fast as I can…while lives and eras end above me.

I go to the sheep pen, finally, and sit (on my comfortable arse) near one of the recovering rams.  In the silence, we all hear the knocking, even louder now.

“Who’s knocking?” asks Prim.

“An old friend of mine,” I say. “She’s horrible.  I came here to hide from her. Don’t let her in.”

The older sheep nod and keep munching.

“Please,” says the friend, “let me in.”

“Who is she? What is her name?” the ewe lambs wonder.  They have never met her.

“I think I know who she is…she’s that vet, right?” says Fergus, shifting uncomfortably and laying his head on my leg.

“No, it’s not the vet,” I tell him, stroking his ears.

“Who is it then?”

“Grief.”

“Please,” she says, “Let me in.  You know I will just keep chasing you.  I always find you in the end.”

 In the presence of the lambs, I decide to let her in.

Gently, she sits down beside me.

“I don’t like our little visits,” I confess. “They are too sad.”

“I know,” she soothes, “you and your inner party girl don’t have time for this.”

“It’s just that I’m so happy until you show up—I’m excited about planting bulbs in the garden, harvesting pumpkins, all the changes around the farm in autumn—and then you ruin everything.  You remind me that we are all just struggle-trudging towards death.  Party-girl and I think you are a real stinker.”

Grief giggles, smiles at me fondly.

“I love you so much,” she says sincerely. “I’m here to give you the medicine you need to help you grow.”

“Have you seen my ass lately?” I ask petulantly. “I don’t need to grow anymore! My clothes don’t fit as it is.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she admonishes gently. “You know the drill.  Get on with it. You know you are always grateful in the end.”

She takes me in her arms and I let her. In the darkness behind eyes slammed shut, I feel something like angel wings enfold us both.   Then the eyelids begin to leak.  First, the salty drops trickle down my cheeks.  Then they seep into my soul—drip, drip, wash, flush.  A torrent cleanses away everything that is Not Important.  Away on the stream go thoughts of chores and petty grievances.  I release that woman who thinks she needs to get everything done yesterday.  I release all desire for material wealth and pleasure and bargain farm equipment on Craigslist. I release thoughts of food and panic about how many people my septic system can handle at Thanksgiving.  Prudence Thimbleton (my harsh inner critic), who has been nagging me about the daffodils, grabs a life preserves and gets swept away in the flood.  I notice, as she goes, that her tight hair bun is askew and her Victorian swimwear is making it hard for her to stay afloat.  I smile.  It feels good to clean out a soul’s closets.
“I am all the Love that is not finished yet,” says Grief, stroking my hair. “Feel that Love.  It’s never gone.  I am here to help you transform it.  That man in Boston, who died…he is not gone.  He lit a flame in all the hearts of those who knew him whose job it now is to keep the music going.   His energy returns in those who play, those who cherish, those who promote and teach and share as humbly and enthusiasticaly as he did.  He is not gone but merely transformed—splintered into the hearts of all those who loved him and what he did. As long as anyone remembers him, and even after, he will remain.  He has left a mark not easily removed.”

“But what if none of us is as good as he was?  There will never be another like him.”

“Celebrate that,” she says. “What a gift!  Honor that someone triumphed in that way.  And try to do a little better in your own life.  Become the Love that feels “missing.”

“But my friend…” I gurgle. I can’t speak any more, as I think of her in a hospital bed…alone…facing brain surgery.

“Your friend and you have shown each other dear and loving companionship and playful co-collaboration.  Your relationship will never end until you are both done being an influence on each other, until all you have taught each other is complete. Change is always changing but Love isn’t.”

“Does that go for my relationships that have failed as well?” I sob.  “Does it apply to those painful places where I still feel so ashamed, abandoned, and misunderstood? Where I have walked away and ended things because of overwhelming disappointment and fear?”

“Of course,” says Good Grief, “Of course.  Just keep looking, learning, softening, opening.  I will hollow you and help you carve out new capacities for compassion and understanding.  You will grow deeper, stronger, wiser.  You will do better next time.  Let what hurts hurt.  Get to know it fully.”

“But my little dog…” I sputter. “How can I ever be happy again without this dear little companion to keep home and shop with me? I can’t bear the thought of losing him…”

“Your dogs, all your animals, even you yourself… these are all just forms of Love.  Love will find you, again and again, in so many ways.  It always has.  That’s how he found you in the first place, when your last dog transitioned.  Love will choose a new form and come to you again.”

“I want the OLD LOVE.  I hate change! I don’t understand why there is so much suffering in this world!” I rage.  “I hate it.  Why do bad things happen to good people?”

She holds me gently until I am empty.  Until there is nothing here at all, except a big space, bigger than ever, to be filled with What Really Matters. 

I am fragile now—prone to choosing carefully.   I choose to keep Mending. I choose to keep Loving.  I choose to keep Hoping.  Party girl smiles shyly from the corner. She’s got her dancing shoes in hand.  At some point soon, we’ll get off this immensely comfortable arse and keep Living.  I hope you do too!
Wishing you Sew Much Love,

Yours aye,

Nancy

P.S. If my friend Grief chooses to visit you soon, I hope you let her in.  She’s really ok.