One April Morning

My puppy died yesterday. I can't stop crying.

Well, I call her a puppy. She was a tiny 13-year-old poodle/maltese terrier with soft apricot fur who looked like a puppy. She has been ingrained in the fabric of my life since I was 9-years-old.

There is a lot to be grateful for. She lived to a ripe-old age. She lived a good life, I think. 

That's the thing about being a pet owner, isn't it? You try your best to make them happy. But since you speak different languages, you have to rely on other cues. Barking. Scratching at the door. Jumping onto your lap and nuzzling your shoulder. Familiarity leads you to believe that you know each other. But there is always  cause to wonder: did I do enough?

In all truth, the sorrow I feel is not just for her. It's for me, too. It's the sorrow of regret. I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. She stayed behind at my parents' house when I moved out a few months ago. And as hard as I try, I can't remember our last cuddle.

So rather being at peace, I am left with never-ending questions. Was she happy? Did I treat her well? Or did I neglect her sometimes, too caught up in my own life to play and pet? Did she like her food? Did she ever go hungry? When I left, did she miss me? Did she wonder where I'd gone? Did she think I'd abandoned her? And before she died, was she scared? Did she know what was happening to her? If someone had told her she was taking her last breath, would she have been content? Or would she long for one last hug? 

As someone who is not accustomed to the grief of losing people I love, I can only imagine that the emotions I feel are somewhat like those that every grieving person has to cope with. And I am sure that one day, only happy, loving memories will surface whenever I think of her. But for now, the tears flow whenever I'm reminded that I am facing the rest of my life without her in it.

Sylvia Plath's description of time is my favourite. Not because I share her view, but because her eloquence allows me to perceive it through her eyes, in such a different way.

For Sylvia, the transient nature of time was upsetting. Nothing lasts; no moment, no person, no feeling. Nothing is real. It made her feel hopeless; it smothered her, suffocated her, left her gasping for air. Trying to navigate time was, for her, like falling into quicksand and forever struggling to find her way back to solid ground. All the while, fearing death and - worse (perhaps) - being insignificant.

For me, time is not nearly so frightening. I take comfort in its reliable pace and rejoice in its ebb and flow. I feel empowered, not discouraged, by the fact that this too, shall pass and no feeling is final. And as bad feelings fade away, I seek moments of joy and sweetness in the future, taking hold and savouring them when they come along. Ultimately, I try to follow my heart, finding pleasure and meaning along the way, gathering happy memories and (hopefully) living a life well lived.

I think Sylvia was wrong. Time passed is not dead. It dwindles, along with the clarity of  our memories. But knowledge, experience, understanding, love... these accrue over time, always available for us to revisit and reflect upon.

As time slips by, I take solace in the fact that I am gradually becoming a stronger, wiser, more true and whole human being. That way, surrendering myself to its perpetual current doesn't seem quite so scary.

The other day I was clearing out my inbox, and in its depths found a beautiful email by Danielle LaPorte of White Hot Truth, which explained so concisely why I, and people like me, don't give. 

I have empathy for others. I know they need help. And Danielle articulated why I don't reach out like I should. 

I am afraid.

It took me a long time to get to this place, but I am here, and here it is: it is our right, nay, our responsibility, to spend time working on ourselves. 

To nurture our souls, to do things we like to do, to reject social pressures, to pursue our dreams, to embrace our flaws, to hone our talents, to be whole. 

For if we want to create a world in which everybody is free to be who they are, we have to be brave enough to live it ourselves.

In his ode to friend Christopher Hitchens, Martin Amis quoted Russian novelist Vladimir Nabokov:

Of course, Amis was referencing Nabokov in order to strike a distinction between him and the incredibly articulate Hitchens. I am impressed by Hitchens; but my affinity is with Nabokov.

It is not that I am a genius or distinguished author, as Nabokov was - it's just that I can relate to his difficulty with translating the eloquence of his written word into the spoken word.

Now, Christopher Hitchens is one of my favourite writers. It is my greatest hope to, one day, be as brilliant and persuasive a writer as he. His latest writings for Vanity Fair, achingly honest, irreverent windows into his battle with oesophageal cancer, demonstrate just how the written word is still as relevant and potentially life-changing as it has ever been (wider distribution and access, greater spectrum of voices, views, opinions, etc).

In his latest piece, Unspoken Truths, Christopher Hitchens writes about losing his voice; a tragedy for one of the world's most talented orators, and an erasure of his greatest pleasure, one which defined him. But what Christopher also explains is how important his voice has been for his writing, a link I have never fully grasped myself, until now. He writes...

Just a little note to apologise for the lack of updates on this blog - I am currently sick and bedridden. Hopefully next week I will be feeling less dizzy and more inclined to think and write with clarity!

Also, I would like to share a little trick that is helping with my recovery (apart from pain-killers and Calippo icy poles, that is). Sarah Wilson recently blogged about her number one wellness tip "taming her vata", based upon an ancient Ayurvedic healing technique. To put it very simply (please read Sarah's post if you would like details), at any one time, we are one or a combination of three body/personality types ("doshas"): vata, pitta or kapha. Sarah is vata. Right now, as a sick person, I am predominantly kapha. Meaning that I am tired and lethargic, feeling heavy and sleepy. In order to balance my kapha, I need to reinvigorate myself.

Deepak Chopra gives advice for kapha types like me. Rising early, invigorating fragrances (mine: Serge Lutens' Fleurs d'Oranger), invigorating tea (organic ginger and peppermint from T2), deep breaths, meditation, de-cluttering, bright colours. It all helps. And I know it all sounds a bit kooky, but sometimes it's nice to take a peek outside the box and see what else is out there