The beauty of this rhododendron today begged to be shared. I can’t imagine any of us are immune to the horror we’ve all witnessed over the last several days. How awful is it that the Buffalo massacre on 14 May 2022 was followed merely one day later by two more shootings (in Houston, Texas and Laguna Woods, California). And the horror of yesterday’s massacre at an elementary school is more than many of us can take.
There’s a part of me that’s holding out hope that the outrageousness of so many recent assaults on our fundamental values of freedom, equality, and the sanctity of keeping our little kids alive and safe at school will galvanize us as a nation.
My skin crawls when I hear these talking heads of Authoritarianism chide and deride Democrats for ‘politicizing’ the gun issue when 21 people were just murdered in a 4th grade classroom. Or when I listen to them tell us all we need to do is ‘harden our schools’ to make them safe.
What utter bullshit.
Grief
I can only barely register the grief being felt by the families in Uvalde, Texas tonight. I say ‘tonight’ as if it will subside within a few days or weeks. Surely we all know in our hearts that their lives will never be the same. Just like the Sandy Hook parents. The families of Uvalde will live with this forever. But the thing is, so will we.
We’re all traumatized. We’re all reeling from the senselessness. We’re all horrified by the knowledge that our government is stocked with at least 50 Senators who place more value on lining their pockets and furthering their careers than they do on protecting their fellow citizens and constituents.
There’s the trauma. And there’s the grief.
Hope
I wanted to write tonight and lead with some beauty because we must not give up on each other – or ourselves.
Our country is falling apart at the seams. But we’re the ones who can and must mend it or create a new one.
Look at these photos and drink deeply of the beauty. Take heart. Gather your courage. We must act on behalf of all our babies.
I’ve been looking forward to reaching this moment and yet dreading it at the same time. We all know it’s been on my mind – it’s not as if I haven’t kept a running “T minus” count at the bottom of each post. So here it is. My Act of Power is complete. And the weirdest thing of all is how truly ‘full circle’ I’ve come. It’s more than you might think.
When I wrote my first post in the Act of Power I ended up dubbing my ‘1111 Devotion,’ all I knew was that the goal was set. I didn’t project into the future. In fact, I remember dividing 1111 by 365 just to see roughly how long my commitment would play out. And I distinctly remember wondering what day the project would end but making the conscious decision not to figure it out ‘with specificity.’ I didn’t want to consciously know the end date. In some way, I think I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. Who knew what might happen between then and now? In spite of my very best intentions, circumstances might have interrupted my efforts – so why put a date on it.
Over the past few months I began to get a sense of what the end date would be. (Yeah, I know. I’m weird.) And the fact that this effort on behalf of honoring Karl would end tonight seemed, oh, I don’t know. Too perfect.
Last Night
And so it was only last night that I finally permitted myself to pull out my journal from the time when Karl died and check some of the dates that were dancing around in my head. What I discovered may have contributed to my difficulty writing last night’s post. No. They absolutely did. My mind was going both a million miles a minute and simultaneously whirring, sort of stuck in neutral, in another time and place.
I was both rejoicing and thanking myself for keeping such detailed notes of thoughts, feelings, experiences, and messages – and also feeling a profound regret for not having kept even better records. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying that I was berating myself. It was more a feeling like when you’re watching a great movie or reading a book that’s totally engrossing and yet…you want more.
On some level, I knew I’d feel this way even as I was walking through our shock and grief. That’s why I did make an effort a couple of times to write out in copious detail some of the more amazing experiences we had. But there were many, many more mundane connections and contacts made between Karl and us in the days and weeks following his drowning. One thing that apparently happened frequently – so frequently that I clearly started taking it for granted – was a classic sign of the presence of spirit: a sudden and often fleeting feeling of a cold draft or pocket of air.
Funny. I totally forgot that that happened a lot in the two weeks or so immediately following his death. And yet even other people experienced it. Even people who called me to say they felt his presence in that moment and had a word or a message to convey.
Karl holding Spartacus (approx 4 weeks old) – Photo: L. Weikel
Tip of the Iceberg
And all of this is just a taste of what I re-discovered when I went back and started reading my entries from that time. As I said above, it sent me into a reverie that, honestly, I feel I’m still in.
Indeed, a part of me wanted to try to write this final post in my 1111 Devotion ahead of time. What?!? And break with tradition? I’m pretty sure you all know I’ve written each and every post spontaneously, every night, often jettisoning an idea that had been lurking at the edge of my mind in favor of a thought, inspiration, or outrage that was simply too compelling to quell.
So no. I couldn’t write this ahead of time. And now we’re sort of stuck with this polyglot of thoughts.
YCMTSU
But of course, I must conclude with the final YCMTSU (You Can’t Make This Stuff* Up) of this 1111 Devotion. Today is November 26th 2021. Our Gathering in honor of Karl was held – you guessed it – on the Saturday following Thanksgiving in 2011: November 26th. This post, because of the way I stay up late writing and have it set up so that the email version gets batch posted at 1:00 a.m., will actually be posted on Saturday.
So yeah. Through absolutely ZERO planning or intention on my part, this 3+ year endeavor, based solely on writing 1111 consecutive posts (in tribute to his death on 11/11/11 – at or about 11:11 p.m. Pacific Time) is ENDING on 11/26 (my Friday night), but technically Saturday – the literal day on which his Gathering took place ten years ago.**
There’s More
Reading my journal entries has reminded me of some experiences that I’m still digesting, in that I honestly believe they mean more to me now than they did when they occurred. It’s almost as if they’re messages that I wrote down then but were meant for me to read and recall now.
This is something that happens a lot with dreams and shamanic journeys. That’s because time is an illusion, and sometimes we receive messages or have dreams that we know or feel are profound, but don’t really make sense in the ‘now.’ It’s only when we go back and read them weeks, months, and sometimes even years (or decades) later do they click into place.
Ah yes. Good stuff.
But in the meantime? I thank you all for sharing this epic journey with me. Knowing at least one other person (besides Karl – he has to live with me, so he was kind of obligated to at least fake it) was reading my words meant the world to me. Instead? I was blessed with so many of you.
Thank you.
Karl and I opening Sacred Space at Karl’s Gathering 10 years ago today – Photo: Ellen Naughton
*you know what I really say
**As usual whenever I mention 1111 Devotion, I added the link to the very first entry I wrote (the ‘Devotion’ post), above. For the first time in a very long time (ever?), I re-read it just now in its entirety and I see that – apparently – I DID calculate that this would end on November 26th. What I realize is that it obviously didn’t even CLICK that this would be the exact 10 year anniversary of his Gathering; and as a corollary to that, I don’t think I was counting eggs, much less any chickens, at that point. I can confidently say I never assumed I’d reach this goal without missing a day. I still can’t believe it.
Meet PachaPup and Brutus Beefcake – Photo: L. Weikel
If a Boston Finds Us
I had the dream of Spartacus at the first crack of morning light on Monday. While I was diligent and wrote it down as best as I could, I didn’t actually share it with Karl until later that afternoon. It made me too sad to even relate it; the sense of Spartacus being right there beside me was still so acute. When I did read my dream to Karl, though, we agreed to keep an open mind. “If a Boston finds us,” we said to each other, “we’ll pay attention for sure.”
Mind you, maintaining an open mind on this was akin to remaining open to getting struck by lightning twice. Sage and I had stumbled upon Sheila’s litter (only a few miles from our house) when we passed a hand-made sign at the end of a long driveway at the edge of a local road. She was not a kennel-bred dog. She and her litter-mates were raised right there in the living room of the farmhouse they shared with their humans, and where they were born.
We always had a sneaking suspicion that part of the loveliness of Sheila’s personality was due to her having been whelped in a family home. What were the chances of making such a discovery again, especially since that family had moved away years ago?
Sarah’s Surprise
The very next day, our daughter-in-law Sarah sent me an email about a litter of Bostons she’d discovered in Pennsylvania. I do not think she ever expected me to follow up; I think she was just planting a seed. (She didn’t know about the dream…)
I clicked on the link and couldn’t believe my eyes. Besides the utter adorableness of the puppies themselves, they’d only just turned eight weeks old and become ready to adopt the day before. Yes, the day of my Spartacus dream. And the description of the setting in which they were being raised was exactly what I wanted: a family that loves their Boston Terriers.
I knew I had to at least honor Spart’s message by calling the human mother and discerning more details. Melisa and I spoke for forty-five minutes. The rapport was instantaneous. By the end of our conversation, we’d set up an appointment for Karl and me to meet the litter, as well as both their canine parents and their humans.
Turns out we had to essentially cross the state to get there – but oh my, was the trip worth every single minute.
Brother and Sister
Meet Brutus Beefcake and PachaPup. The ‘runt’ (Brutus’s nickname amongst his humans was “Shrimp”) and the only girl in the litter.
Oh my…what have we done? Details – and lots of photos – to follow. If nothing else, this should make the last stretch of the 1111 Devotion more fun for all of us, hmm?
Alas, I was not beamed up by yesterday’s mothership. Nor did I see any Draconids on our walk tonight. There were too many clouds lingering at the first edge of evening, holdovers from the grumpy, overcast weather of the entire day.
I doubt it would come as a surprise to any of you to learn that Spartacus’s sudden death wrenched our family’s hearts. It threw us for a loop. As weird as it may sound, I think the sudden and unexpected loss of him was a cruel reminder of that same sudden and unexpected loss of Karl.
And yet again, I struggle in my attempts to describe my feelings without being perceived as some kind of hack who is unable to discern between love for a human and love for an ‘animal.’ As if one is higher or more refined than the other.
I struggle because, as I’ve said before, love is love. Love is that unabashed, open-hearted relinquishment of barriers between two beings. It’s a giving of one’s heart. It’s a sense of being seen and heard and cherished no matter what.
Simply one of my favorite photos; Son & Mom, Spartacus & Sheila – Photo: L. Weikel
Imbalance
After Sheila died, a year ago, Karl’s and my walks felt out of balance. For over 12 years we’d taken daily walks, each with a pup of our own on a leash. I’ve often wondered as Spartacus and I walked and walked and walked mostly by ourselves over the last several months whether Karl’s sudden, strange onset of pain, making our walks uncomfortable for him, was at all related to that ‘imbalance.’
Surely it doesn’t seem to make any logical sense that losing one of our cherished pups would impact us physically. And yet, the question lingered. It remains unanswered to this day.
I, for one, only realized after his death how constant a presence in my life Spartacus had become. I’ve always been deeply connected to my four-legged companions, from my very first kitten, Katen, who came into my life when I was six. (He passed away shortly before Karl and I were married.) But especially since the pandemic hit, Spartacus had been literally my constant companion. Even in work, which I now do ‘long distance,’ he was at my side. On the porch, in the house, it didn’t matter. He was with me.
“Arf!” – Photo: L. Weikel
Dream
Several days ago, completely unexpectedly, Spartacus appeared to me in the very early hours of the morning. This is when I often receive my most profound communications from other realms.
That morning, I felt like I opened my eyes and saw Spartacus. He was in my face – I could see his adorable little front teeth. His front paws were on me, on my arm, getting my attention. He kept saying, “Arf! Arf!” very insistently. His big brown eyes looked right into mine.
I thought, what is he telling me? What does he mean when he arfs at me like this?
“What pup? What are you telling me?” I asked.
“Get it,” he replied.
“But…”
“I used to tell you to GET IT when I wanted you to go into the yard and get one of my toys to throw for me.”
“But…”
“Get it. Get a puppy. I don’t want you to wait.”
“What???”
“ARF!” And he grinned at me. Love poured out of him, poured out of his big brown eyes.
All I could feel was love for him and his love for me.
Man oh man, it’s been a week. Wait. What? It’s not over yet, you say? Well, I guess that’s technically true (and not a little scary). All I can say at this moment, though, is that I’m feeling very loved – and I have all of you to thank for that.
When I wrote my post last Sunday night, I was worried. I’d intended to write another anthropomorphized vegetable tale, but obviously that silliness was pre-empted. I may or may not regain the light-hearted silliness required to write about the carrot that arrived from the CSA last weekend.
As most of you know, it doesn’t matter what I may have tucked in the back of my mind as a possible topic on any given evening. Ultimately, I always opt to share my state-of-being in the moment. And I could feel in my bones that, even though he just seemed ‘punk’ throughout the day, Spartacus’s malaise was rapidly degrading into something far more concerning.
Community of Compassion
I want to tell all of you how much your words and gestures of love and compassion have meant to me this week. The first few days of the week were a blur of action and driving and shock. The next few felt like a slow-motion pileup of emotions – as well as that weird unable-to-catch-your-breath feeling of having the wind knocked out of you. That’s the feeling that accompanies sudden, irretrievable loss. It’s like a WOMP right to the solar plexus.
My wish is that none of you ever have to feel it. But of course, I know many of you already have. Whether you have or you haven’t experienced that feeling, reading about it is a gift. Not a gift to you necessarily. But definitely a gift to the writer. It’s a gift that you gut through it long enough to share in the emotions as hard as they may be to read, and then – even more amazingly – take the time to write a comment in response.
Can I tell you how much it meant to me to pull up FB on my phone and just see how many people had reacted? And then the shock of seeing the number of comments? I felt arms around me and a solidarity of shared compassion just in looking at those numbers.
To be honest, I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to read your sweet and loving comments until yesterday. It was a comfort simply to know you cared enough to write to me. I needed to wait a full day to take the time to scroll through them and then truly take in your love.
We Are Kindred Spirits
The level of compassion and understanding with which so very many of you responded was enlightening. The heartfelt responses I received from you were not a reflection of the quality of my writing. No. They were a reflection of the love that each and every one of you has experienced first-hand. Experienced – and then been forced to release into the ethers. Because that’s the nature of our lives.
The array of responses revealed something else, too: You’re all a bunch of lovers. We love and we let go.
The fact that I’m lucky enough to have so many people (from all over the world, I might add) in my life, sharing this journey, holding each other’s hands when any one of us is hurting, is a treasure. It’s not easy to live our lives with awareness. It’s hard to choose to feel – and not run from the hard stuff.
Thank you for being the kind softies you all revealed yourselves to be. I love being part of our community of compassion. I dare say it’s because we have each other that we pick ourselves up every day and refuse to give in to the darkness that threatens all of us every once in a while.
Well, when I mentioned last week that I suspected yesterday’s full moon and tomorrow’s equinox would be some powerful aspects to contend with, I guess I wasn’t messing around. And those are only the more obvious transits happening this week.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I am emotionally cooked. In spite of my hopes and exhaustion, I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed, turned, and was acutely aware of the absence of Spartacus in/on my bed. That boy slept in the small of my back for 13 years. So stringing the words together tonight is like walking through quicksand. I keep sinking into pockets of random thoughts and then jerk awake, finding I’ve been stuck on the same sentence for twenty minutes.
I did want to mention that tomorrow (Wednesday 22 September 2021) is going to be a powerful day on a number of fronts. The most obvious is the fall equinox, which will occur at 3:21 p.m. EDT. This marks the balance between light and dark and heralds the gradual shortening of our days (in the Northern Hemisphere) and the time of harvesting (on a variety of levels). Once again, this is a powerful time to begin taking action on making the changes in our lives that are in alignment and support of our dreams. Here is a perspective you might find interesting.
Spart’s Rainbow & Heart – Photo: L. Weikel
A Chaotic Day
Besides today being the aftermath of yesterday (how’s that for profundity?!), I also had set up an appointment last week for Precious to be seen by our vet. She’s been a hot mess for a long, long time and I finally made up my mind to have her examined and tested.
This is a bigger deal than you might at first think. She’s paranoid as all get out and of course she hid under the bed in my son’s old bedroom, howling (and yes, I do mean howling) in distress that Karl and I were trying to pick her up. (She bolted upstairs as soon as I looked at her about 45 minutes before her appointment. Damn cat is too psychic for her own good.)
We managed to double team her and not only put her in a pillowcase, which is my preferred method of transporting our cats to the vet, but for good measure also put her (while still in the pillowcase) into the cat carrier.
Long story short, she acted like her hair was on fire or as though we were plotting to slowly butcher her. Once I got to the vet’s office, she actually needed to be sedated (gassed) in her carrier so the doctor (who was still feeling anguish over Spartacus) could examine her.
While we are still waiting for the blood tests to come back tomorrow (to see if she has anything else going on in her old age), it turns out she has an autoimmune disorder, eosinophilic syndrome. She received a long-acting shot of steroids that could make her feel better than she has in a very long time indeed. I hope so, because her extreme anxiety wore me out, especially after yesterday.
Spart’s Feather – Photo: L. Weikel
Walking Hurt Today
It was excruciating taking a walk today. For all the joy being out in nature brings me, it was hard to appreciate anything in the realization over and over today that Spartacus and I would never walk together again.
Surprisingly, I did witness some magic, even though I was pretty sure my perspective was too sad to do so. A rainbow dog appeared in the sky and the cloud formation beside it reminded me of a broken heart. Not in a sad way, though. It felt more like an acknowledgment from Karl and Spartacus (and Sheila) that they feel my sadness and know how much I miss them.
Further along on my walk, I found this feather.
It’s a little bit of magic that I wasn’t expecting. In my need for sleep and desire to wake up and find this was all a bad dream, I’ll gratefully accept these gifts from Spirit.
Trying to write this post is a nightmare. Believe me, I don’t want to. It stuns me that it’s necessary. Eulogizing my beloved Spartacus seems redundant. Any attempt – inadequate. I’m going to have to let the million posts I wrote that referenced him and his mother Sheila speak for themselves. I don’t want to believe he’s actually gone. But he is.
The photo that was at the top of last night’s post was taken at 2:00 p.m. yesterday. The rapidity with which his health situation crashed was stunning. The doctors have no clue as to his illness’s etiology.
All I know is that our veterinarian and the emergency veterinarian both were at a loss. His blood work showed his liver and kidneys were failing. He was septic – apparently very much so, according to his blood sugar. And the chances of bringing him back from the brink of reuniting with his mommy, Sheila, were extremely slim.
Hangin’ on the porch – Photo: L. Weikel
Small Comfort
As with all loss, especially the kind that sneaks up and smacks you in the head from behind, questions abound. Regrets, second-guessing, and ‘what-ifs’ swirl unmercifully in your head, and even more so in your heart. While intellectually you might know without a doubt that the one lost (and here I’m making no distinction between the objects of our love) knew they were loved and adored – it is small comfort in the face of the fact that suddenly they’re gone.
Squeaky toy, muddy paws; Photo: L.Weikel
And Yet, It’s Everything
I think that’s probably the most excruciating part about being a human. It’s both the awareness of love and the persistence of that awareness once the beloved is gone. Because it’s that persistence of awareness that stops us in our tracks when we remember they’re gone. And it’s the persistence of that awareness that’s reflected in the pain we humans are terrified of knowing. At least that’s been my experience.
Pain is the direct 1:1 reflection of the depth of the love. It can feel unfathomable.
I love with my whole heart, without restriction. And when I lose an object of my love (particularly unexpectedly) the pain ‘goes there.’ It is hard to see straight for a time. And it’s tempting to wish I’d never opened myself up to being hurt so deeply, to being left so vulnerable.
The Four S’s – Photo: L.Weikel
And Then I Remember
I remember the joy. I remember what’s truly important about life and living.
Knowing the pain, I love all the more. In fact, I yearn to bring more love into my life. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I just know. Love is what lives forever. And it’s the most powerful force in existence.
Sheila and Spartacus Reunited 9/20/21 – 5 days shy of one year exactly; Photo: L.Weikel
It’s funny how memory and emotions work. Sometimes it seems there’s no rhyme or reason why a loved one (human or otherwise) suddenly comes to mind and slices open our heart unbidden. When I opened my eyes this morning, lingering in that between space of neither awake nor asleep, I suddenly found myself overcome with missing our girl. Missing my Sheila.
Grief is like that. It’s sneaky and cruel, in a way.
If I scratch the surface, though, I probably only label it as cruel because the intensity of that missing, the sudden, excruciating awareness of that void, can knock the breath out of us – especially when we don’t see it coming. And that’s sort of how it is after they’ve been gone a while.
And so it was this morning as I lay in bed, swimming to the surface of consciousness, remembering who and where and when I am, that I yearned to hold my puppy Sheila again. I remembered with acute clarity laying in bed with her years ago, stroking the white streak that ran down her nose and always reminded me of a feather, telling her what a precious puppy she was.
The Fire Brigade (Tigger, Spartacus, Cletus) – Photo: L. Weikel
Something In the Air
About an hour or two later, I took a photo of Spartacus (her son), who was snoozing in front of the fireplace with two of his (feline) brothers, Cletus and Tigger.
I texted the photo to my youngest son without a word of context.
His response? “Wow, what babies. Miss that pup.”
Then a handful of seconds later: “Oh. Wow. I thought that was Sheila.”
Sheila was his pup. Or I should say, he was her boy.
For whatever reason, her memory, her essence, the loving energy that was our ‘Sheila Monster,’ was visiting both of us today. Pennsylvania, Massachusetts – it didn’t matter where we were. Her playful, protective, and utterly sweet-natured essence enveloped us both in the memory of her love.
I’m sitting here listening to rain pelt against the dining room windows while a long, lonely gust of wind whistles through the keyhole of our front door. No need to worry about ‘closed building syndrome’ in this old house – and that’s just fine with me. I’m happy with the creaks and cracks of this home, the things some people might consider imperfections.
In fact, I’d go so far as to say I love the imperfections that make our house our home. Not all of them, of course. (Oh, for even a smidgen more kitchen counter space.) But overall? I honestly think it’s the imperfections that keep me sane.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in a house that was built in 1770. It was nothing like the houses of most of my friends. Our wooden floors were known to occasionally cast splinters as big as spears into my foot, piercing my socks and making me yelp (and causing my father to reach for the black gunky stuff that smelled like tar, that would supposedly ‘pull it out’ if it was embedded too deeply to dig out).
Christmas Eve 2020
I think many of us would agree that this Christmas in particular is filled with imperfections. Certainly, it’s far different than any Christmas most of us can recall. But I have to wonder. What will we remember most about this most abnormal of yuletides?
There are so many people enduring untold grief this Christmas. (And of course, I am using Christmas as a shorthand for all the holidays we may be celebrating at this time of year that celebrate the return of light, and encourages going within, hibernating, and reflection.) Nothing feels the same. And precious little is the same.
People are losing loved ones to the pandemic and other causes by the thousands – every single day. We’re being asked to sacrifice our traditions for the safety of ourselves and others. We’re wondering just how long this no-longer-fresh hell is going to last.
A Reminder
Karl and I were lucky enough to be able to spend a few hours with one of our sons and daughter-in-law. Because the weather is as unpredictable as it is, early this evening, it was balmy enough for us to safely sit outside in their enclosed porch and eat dinner together – occupying opposite ends of the long dinner table.
As we were driving home in the pouring rain that luckily mostly held off until we were leaving, the wind starting to whip around us, a couple of deer jumped out into the roadway in front of us. Luckily, I was driving slowly enough that I saw them well ahead of time. Turned out, though, that the three that popped onto the roadway before us were joining quite the cadre of peers on the other side of the road.
They were so beautiful and such an unexpected sight! I rolled down my window and took their photo, in spite of the raindrops splattering on my face. They were a lovely reminder of the gentleness we’re all wise to exercise with each other and ourselves over these holiday times.
I’m grateful we didn’t have an accident. And I loved the looks they seemed to give us as they stood there in the rain, returning our gaze. I realize this post probably makes little sense. But I wish all of you a peaceful, loving Christmas Day. May we all enjoy a day of respite from the insanity that has marked this year in particular.
And I’ll forgive myself for the vast imperfections of this post – not least being the fact that I just blew right through the witching hour of 1:00 a.m. (when it gets automatically sent out to my email list).
Merry Christmas. Happy Solstice. Let’s let the light shine into our hearts.
First Page of Pandemic Journal #1 – Photo: L. Weikel
We’re all familiar with the saying: “There’s a first time for everything.” Little did I know at the beginning of this momentous year of 2020 that the expression would apply to a devastating experience with one of my journals.
As I mentioned in my post last night, I reached the natural conclusion of my then current spiral notebook journal at the beginning of April this year. Filled that baby up. Of course, that prompted me to begin a new one, the first entry of which was on April 7, 2020. On the very first page, I dubbed it my Pandemic Journal, because in spite of all the reassurances from on high that it would “all go away like a miracle” one day, my instincts (and ability to read well-researched, science-based articles) told me otherwise. The prospects felt ominous.
A Long History
I’ve been keeping a journal for at least 45 years. Wow. Seeing that in writing really drives it home. I know it to be a pretty accurate estimate because when I became an exchange student to Sweden my senior of high school, I’d already been keeping track of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences for at least two years. And once I arrived in Sweden, my journal was my refuge. In fact, as I became fluent in Swedish through that year, I even started writing my journal in Swedish to prove to myself that I could do it.
My habit of documenting my life’s experiences continued unabated (and perhaps became even more ingrained due to the daily parade of new countries and adventures) as I backpacked around Europe with a Swedish chum a month before returning home and starting college.
I’ll admit that there were times when I would go days, then weeks – and even, especially in college, months – without writing. I’d always regret the lapse when I picked up a pen again. In college, I used a Day Planner my father gave me for Christmas each year. It didn’t have a lot of room to write in each day, which in some ways was probably perfect. I could at least make time to jot down whatever was most significant about a particular day.
Throughout It All
Thus for the past 45 years or so, I’ve kept journals. Throughout all my travels, all my experiences, journeying from Sweden to New Mexico, Buffalo to Peru, Seattle to Siberia, I never – not once – lost or mangled a journal.
Not until 2020.
Specifically, on Thursday, July 30, 2020, I dutifully recorded a variety of observations, from the very personal to the fact that the president was starting to float the idea of postponing the election. I remarked just how oppressively hot it was that day and how disheartened I was becoming over the trajectory of our country.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I left my journal, along with a Medicine Card book, buried amongst the mound of pillows piled upon the glider where I usually sit when writing on my porch. Karl and I took a walk that evening and upon returning, I forgot to retrieve it. I left it outside overnight – and of course, there was a wild and thoroughly drenching torrential downpour that raged for hours that night.
I Searched High and Low
Friday morning I searched everywhere for my journal. I turned my bedroom upside down, my living room inside out. I looked on the porch several times, but with great relief found nothing – until I started dismantling the mountain of pillows and cushions to place them out in the sun to dry. It’s hard to express the horror I felt when I made my grim discovery.
Indeed, I even wrote (in my first entry of my present journal) how the magnitude of the soaking storm that occurred that Thursday evening was so extreme that, had it been a storm of any normal size, the journal would’ve been protected. First of all, it had a thick plastic cover on it. Second of all, it was so deeply buried – under several layers of pillows. It was outrageously ridiculous that so much rain fell that evening such that everything – all those layers – became utterly waterlogged.
Indeed, for days afterward, I would sit on that glider and water would drip out of the bottom-most cushions.
Simply Devastated
I was stunned. In shock. For the first time ever, I’d failed to take care of my journal. I’d neglected one of my most sacred objects.
It probably sounds weird, but I’ve been too ashamed to even write about and confess this publicly until now. While I realize it is just words, it’s not a human being, nor a beloved pet, I experienced a deep and irretrievable loss.
Once I write something down, I let it go. I give myself permission to release the need to obsessively try to remember all the details of everything I experience. And through the pandemic up to that point, I’d been tracking a number of dreams and journeys (the shamanic kind) that seemed particularly significant. A few in particular almost felt prophetic, and documenting them in my journal was my best way of keeping track.
To make matters worse, I may have mentioned before that I write dreams and journeys in different colors in my journals to make them stand out. It’s then easier for me to locate those extraordinary moments when I go searching for them later. Imagine my dismay – my actual sense of mourning – when I realized that my journeys and dreams had literally been washed away. For whatever reason, the colors I use for those special events orange, green, and red, of the very same pens I use in black and blue ink to write my everyday experiences, ‘ran’ completely off the pages, leaving nary a trace behind.
Started Anew
So on August 2nd, 2020, I began my Pandemic Journal #2. Of course, I’ve kept the first, as can be seen from the photos I’m including with this post. But sadly, it seems only my more mundane entries can still be read. While I’m grateful that anything could be salvaged…
The loss is real.
Rich Details of a Journey – Lost; Photo: L. Weikel
