The last time I had two dogs was about 15 years ago when I took Julius and Stanley up on the hill to write “Running To The Mountain.” I think I felt Izzy’s absence most this afternoon when I took Lenore and Frieda out for a walk. The path did seem lonelier without Izzy lying flat and looking at me, as he had a habit of doing. It is the small things that bring it home.
Went into Cambridge today to get a message and to sign a bunch of “Izzy & Lenore” paperbacks for Connie Brooks at Battenkill Books, to visit my friend George Forss, the photographer, and to meet up with Maria. In the bookstore, Lenore was terrorized by a Caribbean rescue dog named Honeybear. She is always stunned by rejection. Maria and I went to the Cambridge Co-Op to get some food for dinner. We are having friends to the farm and they are putting their dog down this afternoon. Sounds like a blast, I joked (hopefully.) I came back and walked the dogs. I surely felt the first walk without Izzy, and I have not had only two dogs in nearly 20 years.
I had my 35 mm and I am getting a bearing on it. I took this shot of the First Baptist Church – this is an amazing structure, and tells its own story. Then one of George Forss’s desk, of Connie Brooks at Battenkill and one of Rocky and one of the two dogs on the path. I’ll put the album up on Facebook.
My photography has taken some twists and turns. One reason is my photo lessons with Christine Glade. It is good to learn about the camera. Another is my own evolution. Working with the genius George Forss the other day at the farm, I was reminded to never pose a photograph. It never works, and makes photographer and subject uncomfortable, I think.
Secondly, I am understanding the possibilities of different lenses. I’ve sold a bunch lenses off on E-bay and got a 35 mm, what they call a prime lens. No zooming, and it challenges me to think differently about the photos. It is my story lens. I am using it all day to get used to it. Since I can’t zoom, I have to think about where I am and what the camera is seeing. This photo is an example of a story photo. Because the lens is fixed I have to sense the scene – Maria and Mother heading off together to do barn chores. Have to step back, let Maria and Mother move.
Same with the photo below. I can talk all I want about barn chores, but better to tell the story. For the next few days I will be living in a 35 mm world. I think this is the lens I have been waiting for, as I am a story-teller.
We buried Izzy in the garden where he loved to lie on the cool dirt and look out over the valley, as dogs do. It was Maria’s idea to leave him there and we dug a big hole after he died. Maria and I filled in the hole, planted some flowers, cleaned up the garden and all of us went out there this morning to say hello, or perhaps goodbye. It’s the right place. We will leave him behind when we move to the New Bedlam Farm, which bothers me. But this is where he belongs, and his spirit is free to go where he wishes it to go.
I’ve thought a lot about grief – and not just the loss of dogs and pets – in my life. I lost two children, my parents, many people and animals. So have all of you, I suspect, to one degree or another. This is the toll we pay for living a full life. I think the small dramas of life are really just warm-ups for the big one. Most of us are terrified at one point or another of dying ourselves and as we get closer to it, it becomes more real. This is not something the very young concern themselves with, or should. Izzy and I explored grief quite a bit in our time together. We saw much of it in our hospice work. And people who love dogs and other animals experience it again and again.
There is a part of grieving that I love, and I will admit that. I never feel more alive than when I have lost something I love, the meaning and beauty of life is never closer to me. When I grieve, I rush to the computer and to the camera, because I know my words and photos will capture my feeling and emotions and people will feel them. When I am not grieving, I tend to close up – you cannot be open all of the time – and the normal distractions, fears and foolishness of life re-emerges.
So grieving is a gift. And I do several things when I grieve.
I remind myself that every single person in the world has had a harder life than me, and I caution myself not to swim too deeply in the pool of sadness and pity, as I will lose sight of the rest of humanity, and become selfish and self-absorbed. Everybody wants to hear the news, but nobody wants to hear too much of the story. Everyone has their own, or soon will. Those of us who choose a life with animals know grief especially well, because it always the shadow on the wall, the elephant in the room.
Grief is fueled by love, followed by rebirth. I will get another dog. We put “Fran and the Fox” notecards up for sale. People are supporting Battenkill Books once again. Maria and I had the gift of experiencing grief together. We are moving to a New Bedlam Farm.
I see grief as a mistress, a lover, and I accept her, open myself to her, let us embrace, hold one another, let the sadness cleanse me, purify me, wash through me. As soon as I can and wish, I move ahead. As powerful as it can be, grief is not a permanent home for me, not a place I wish to live. Part of grief is conscious, and part of it is a process that has a life of its own, and it will take its own time and course. It is arrogant to think otherwise. Grief leads to things. People leave anger and fear behind. They comfort and support one another.
And grief always – always – feeds the creative soul, lights the creative spark, opens us up to the feeling and beauty and love of the world as nothing else can. Last night I spent some time with the late musician Levon Helm, and his beautiful new CD, “Dirt Farmer.” And I listened to these lyrics a few times:
“I’m only halfway home, I’ve gotta journey on
To where I’ll find, I’ll find the things I’ve lost
I’ve come a long long road but I’ve still got some miles to go
I’ve got a wide, a wide river to cross.”
