In the winter of my discontent

a season of fragility

Grief has got a hold on me. My sweet dog, Mona, very unexpectedly passed away this week. My heart truly aches and it feels as if it has caved in, in a way that surely must be irreparable. I am mostly writing this newsletter for me, as I need this reminder while I’m in the thick of it. But I know I’m not the only one stricken with grief or going through a crisis. I mean, that’s the thing, right - we can’t escape grief. Nor should we want to, really. It’s painful and dark, and feels like you’re walking blindfolded through an unfamiliar house, trying desperately to find a source of light, or just to get out. We feel our way along the walls as waves of hope and clarity wash over us, right before being hit with despair all over again. In time, the fog lifts, and we come out into the light with a heart that is (hopefully) more open than it was before. It’s never linear and there’s no way it should feel or look. However, we must try to feel our way through it.

I like this picture because it’s like you’re falling into a dark pond, but really you’re riding this white horse into the unknown. A metaphor for grief?

Grief expressed out loud for someone we have lost, or a country or home we have lost, is in itself the greatest praise we could ever give them. Grief is praise, because it is the natural way love honors what it misses.

- Martin Pretchal

I love the above quote. It helps me remember that grief is the flip side of love. Good ol’ duality. We can’t have lightness without the dark, nor loud summer without the quiet of winter. Earlier this year I kept getting nudges to explore the work of Martin Pretchal. I took note of this and looked up his most popular book, The Smell of Rain on Dust, losing interest and putting it on the back burner when I realized the topic was grief. I don’t struggle with that, I thought to myself. Ha! Don’t you love looking back on yourself like a loving, wise elder? What a fool Anika of six months ago was to think that somehow this concept of grief was more suited for “other” people. Luckily it’s never too late to learn. Similarly, last winter I was in a different struggle with grief while my dad was seriously ill in the hospital for weeks. My friend suggested I read Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. I added it to my ever growing list of books in my notes app and forgot about it entirely once that season of grief ended. Isn’t that how it goes with seasons? When you’re in it, you’re in it. And it feels inconceivable that the season could change. But it always, always does.

Since Mona’s passing, I have decided to buckle down and finally sit with grief and attempt to form a new relationship with it. I am currently in the middle of the aforementioned book, Wintering, and feel glad that I found it again in a time when I need it. The concept of Wintering, as May writes about, is our own internal dark season. A season that we will all find ourselves in sooner or later. To quote the book, “we may never choose to winter, but we can choose how.” This concept so aptly fits the current season of my life and that of nature’s. The week before Halloween marked my childhood cat’s passing, followed shortly thereafter by the death of my uncle. A couple of weeks ago, two of the chickens we have frequently pet sat for years died, and that led up to the proverbial cherry on the cake, Mona. At times I wonder if I’ve been cursed, or if the grim reaper is following me around. I try to assure myself that I am not, and rather that I am in the season of loss, but also that of love.

Grief and loss reminds us of that shadow that follows us. Life is fragile - painfully so. When we are shaken by a sudden loss we are also reminded of what truly matters, and thus, we can clean house and reorganize our priorities. If grief is just a part of love, then how beautiful is it that we get these lessons on living imposed on us from the ones we love when we lose them. A couple of months ago, I overheard someone at my yoga studio talking about aging. They said either you age and the experiences you live through make you soft and warm, or they make you cold and hard. I try to take this season of cold and dark as an opportunity to stoke the fire of my heart and keep it from hardening over.

we must keep the heart warm when the world feels cold

I talk a lot about the spiritual and metaphysical death that winter represents, but there’s a very real, physical side to that. Winter would’ve been a scary time for many of our ancestors, even just mere generations away. Would the food last? Would the young children survive the long dark nights and the gripping cold? It was a time when simply surviving was the only priority, and death and loss could almost be promised. I think about that reality, and then I think about my reality, where winter as I know it is perhaps an inconvenience at worst, and an excuse to get cozy and drink cocoa at best. We live against the season. We try to ignore the very real shifts that nature endures, and try our very best to forget that we are nature too, after all.

amazing bleeding heart mobile

How do we cope with these internal winters? To begin with, finding light and life in the every day is key. To me that means getting in the sun for its rise and set. I also look to evergreen trees, which manage to maintain vitality and life in the depths of winter. A walk in the forest can do us wonders. Bringing some of the lively greenery into your home, in the form of wreaths for example, is like dusting the symbolic cobwebs away. Of course, there are always herbs to turn to. Some of my tried and true herbs for hard times are, in no particular order: hawthorn, rose, lemon balm, wood betony, tulsi, cinnamon, saffron, and the flower essence of bleeding heart.

Mona has been the light of my life for the past 10 years. By my side from a mere nineteen years old, to my twenty nine year old self now. Anyone who knows me irl knows how utterly attached I have been to her. She felt like a soul mate. I am certain that her and I have tangoed in a past life or two. The loss of her feels like a loss of me, too. We buried her under an apple tree. I sprinkled lemon balm leaves on top, and think I’d like to plant some there, on top of her grave. Mona would happily munch on lemon balm leaves when walking through the garden; a trait I deemed made her even that more special of a dog.

We all must endure winter, in both the emotional and physical sense. If someone you care about is going through it, please feel free to share this with them. I won’t lie - I took to the forums after losing my pup to read about other’s experiences with grieving a pet. You know what? It actually helped. Finding community in our grieving lightens the load. I’m also always happy to talk herbs if you’re in need of support in that department. In closing, here is the last photo taken of Mona, just days before she left us. She looks like a winter babushka and I love it. Dogs are angels.

♡ ~ Mona, forever in our hearts ~ ♡