the comforter

I spent my Easter in bright sunshine and reflection. Coffee and my journal, then a brisk walk with my sweetheart before a belly-full of brunch at Lucky's because we are lucky indeed. Today, I'm choosing to smile at the blessings of my life, for there are so many, but I'm also coming to terms with decisions I'm not ready to make, inevitabilities I cannot change.

It's been almost six months since we said goodbye to Abby, and now my beloved Olive is suffering from significant health issues all her own. The official term is laryngeal paralysis, a condition that can suddenly, unexpectedly make breathing difficult. And it can come out of nowhere.

Last Thursday, I found myself at the vet. Gasping for air, too weak to walk, Olive was placed on a stretcher and sedated before being administered oxygen. Over the next few hours, gratefully, her breathing stabilized, and I was allowed to bring her home. How you carry a sedated Newfoundland from the car is a whole other story, but for now, she is resting comfortably.

As I write this, Olive is snoring away on the stone patio, the wind tousling her fur like the supermodel she's always been, not a care in the world. Still, as the doctor explained, this is a day-by-day situation. Maybe she has a few months left, maybe less. So here we are. A time of reckoning. And once again, my heart is broken.

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It is absolutely inward and private, the relation between oneself and an animal.

May Sarton

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Olive and I go way back. She was still a puppy when I stopped drinking and grew to become my first sober companion. I remember the early months of my recovery. Every afternoon at 4:30, when I only wanted to open a bottle of wine, we would cross the road and hike the frozen landscape. The time together became a form of training, each of us learning to do something new. I would hold my breath, unclip Olive's leash, then let her run trusting, trusting she would return. And she did each time, in her own lope-y, dopey way.

It was Olive who taught me there was power in letting go. 

I'm writing all this because I don't know how much time I have with my sweet girl, and I want to make the most of it together. I want to care for Olive as she has cared for me. And so, in good conscience and with a heavy heart, I have decided to cancel my June retreat.

They say death comes in threes, and this is the year I know that to be true–my year of tremendous loss. Abby. Grandma Ida. Olive. Throughout these past months, I've barely paused to process; instead, I've pushed through because that's what I do. But sometimes, we can only push so far. I honestly don't know where I'll be in June, but I need to acknowledge and honor my limits wherever that is. To mourn. To heal. 

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John and I have been aware this day would come—this would be the year we would (most likely) find ourselves dog-less. Two twelve-year-od Newfoundlands and a fifteen-year-old semi-blind Golden can live only so long, but it's been an extraordinary ride.

It’s hard to imagine the silence of an empty house as we have always had dogs, so in recent months, we (okay, me) began to scroll through the sites of various Rescues in our area and muse about what might come next. We didn't want a puppy, and it didn't necessarily need to be another Golden or a Newfie, but we knew we wanted a dog. A dog of our own. 

Enter Gertie.

The listing read: Gertrude (Gertie) is a 22-month-old Karakachan. She is healthy, spayed, and current on all her vet care. She knows all her basic training (sit, stay, lie down) and walks well on a leash. Gertie weighs about 95 lbs and will likely get even bigger! Gertie is playful outside and loves to run and explore, so she would do best with a fenced-in yard and plenty of exercises. Indoors, she is content to sleep most of the day and will often climb onto your lap or lay on your feet. She loves a good belly rub and waiting patiently in the kitchen for treats when we cook dinner. Gertie has been raised with another dog, cats, and children, and she does well with all of them though due to her size, she'd probably be best in a family with older children.

Transitions can be tricky both in life and writing, and there is no good time to get a dog, yet we do it anyways. We trust, we let go, we begin again.

From the moment John and I met Gertie, we were smitten. Even her name, which was not one I would have chosen, fit because I had a favorite Great Aunt, Gertrude.

My Gertie was born in 1891. She had two older sisters who had died of diphtheria within days of each other before she was born. At the time of her birth, my great-great-grandfather gave my great-great-grandmother a painting of a child embracing a mourning woman. It was called "The Comforter," a role she played throughout her life, staying with her parents in the family home until they both died.

I knew nothing of Karakachans, but have learned they were initially bred as guardians to watch over their flock. It's what Gertie is doing now. She watches over us; she nuzzles with Olive; she holds us in her good company. She is our Comforter.

To those who have been able to switch their plans and come on retreat in September, I thank you for your understanding and flexibility—a few rooms still remain if it's calling to you.

thanks for reading and one final note:

Peeps are on clearance at Wegmans—only .84 cents a box!!

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once you’ve slept on an island you’ll never be the same… . ..

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When Women Were Birds: murmuration, memoir, meditation

September 22 - 26, 2023

Monhegan, ME

This retreat is an invitation and an embodied book group: journeying and journaling through the words of Terry Tempest Williams's poetic memoir When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice with the many seasons of the sea. It is for anyone who longs to learn or return to the practices of writing and meditation to discover our stories through silence and speech.

all the details • 2022 retreat highlights here

I felt like the bright, salty sunshine and air of Monhegan scrubbed the corners of my soul, and I saw all the cracks and creases and also cleaned the gunk that needed to be moved. It was a deeply satisfying and nourishing experience. I feel like my personal bucket as a woman, mom, midwife, and human became filled to the brim with trust that we can have hard times and find meaningful ways to re-visit reintegrate into ourselves when the opportunity presents itself ~ Elsa, Philadelphia, PA, 2021 + 2022 retreater

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