Grief is like winter; it strips you bare.
This is the line that came to me when I was out walking recently. I had been wanting to write something about grief—about the grief of many things—this month, but words were failing to materialise and then on that walk, on that day, as I looked out across the silent grey landscape, this line came to me and I thought, “That’s it! The start of my piece!”
And then…nothing.
Grief is like winter. Some days it feels like there is only blankness: no sunshine, no flowers, no leaves, no hum of life. Just silence. Quiet, deafening, silence. Grief is also messy, unexpected, obliterating and so it is that this piece of writing is not turning out like any of the ideals I had planned, because a person cannot plan how to articulate how grief feels.
Last week I attended the most amazing course Yoga for Grief with Hanna von Hafenbradl and it was all.the.things: delicate and bold, happy and sad, big and small, and it all began with an exploration of this quote:
“Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.” - Elizabeth Gilbert
Yes, I thought, when I read this, just like we roll with the emotions of love, just as winter waits patiently for spring, a person must simply sit it out when grief grips our hearts and twists them in unexpected ways. It also seems a writer must abandon beautifully-crafted sentences about the…early dawn of an Andalucian Autumn, all at once inky dark and sunlight bright…in favour of mixed up, random—perhaps inadequate and yet all the more necessary for sharing—thoughts.
👆That Andalucian sentence👆was to be the backdrop for the final journey of our beloved dog, Milla. Her whole life and death were achingly beautiful and I wanted to mark them with words that sang through every sentence and yet here I am, unable to coherently put down how it feels to have finally lost that constant presence in my life after almost eighteen years. Yet, more than two months later, I feel if I don’t share something about her then somehow I’m not honouring that beautiful life and death.
For the last year or so we had been, really, Milla’s full-time carers. In fact, I often likened those final months as being exactly like caring for my dear mum. Canine, human; when we are close to any sentient being the love we feel is fierce. So we would carry Milla when she needed, run with her towards the wind she so loved as she sat in her buggy relishing every moment, and loop our hands under her belly when we went swimming in lakes this final summer. We made her all manner of foods so she could continue eating, we cleaned up and nursed her on the bad days, we kept going through endless sleepless nights, which (I have found) seems to be the preferred time for restlessness in old age.
And yes, some may say we should have had her put to sleep and yet, we knew we had the benefit of being able to care for her and so, why wouldn’t we? She still exuded joy on the good days. You could see how much she loved going out on walks, enjoyed her food, and snuggled down for long, lingering cuddles when we watched family movies, each of us holding and massaging her ‘floofy’ paws in our hands. And, ultimately, it felt like a privilege to care for this beautiful, pure, being and in doing so I realised how much easier, at times, it is to love and care for a dog rather than a human because they are so uncomplicated, the love so free of doubt and unresolved battles.
Milla was our best friend.
I will never forget the day we collected her, a tiny pup abandoned at a rescue centre. She snuggled and wriggled in my arms like the most loving and trusting ball of fluff imaginable and from that day we took her everywhere with us.
In the beginning we lived in a house and I had a garden office from where I worked. Milla would be on my lap whether it be the crack of dawn or late into the night, never leaving my side. When I became pregnant she would lie on my belly, protecting the new life growing inside me and when my daughter was born and people said how crazy we were to try and raise a baby alongside a one-year-old dog, Milla surprised them at every turn, being nothing other than protective and loving (and tolerating!).
Once we sold our house and went on the road permanently in 2008, she stayed with us every step of the way—the original travelling dog—and relished each new place we discovered, embracing every.single.moment with joy and excitement.
It’s hard, now, to imagine a world without her in it.
And yet, her death turned out to be just as beautiful as her whole life. Staying at a friend’s house, the day before we took her to a lake that had been her favourite when we spent six months in Andalucia back in 2008.
We carried her to the water’s edge and she was adamant about going in so we took it in turns to gently hold her as she lazily stretched out her paws in the sparkling blue water. When we brought her out and wrapped her in a blanket she sat staring more intently than ever at not only the scenery, but at each of us—as if she were trying to imprint every moment on her memory. We all commented on her utter absorption and as we carried her back to the van, felt it had been a great day for her.
But the next day she woke silently yet needing us. I held her on the sofa as she nestled into me and for the whole day we never left her side until, at just after 5pm, with us all holding her, she stretched out her aging limbs as if about to run into the distance on one last adventure, and slowly—with grace—took her last breath.
In the Bhagavad Gita it says that: “Whatever state of being one remembers when he quits his body…that state he will attain without fail.”
I like to think that day at the lake, Milla was channeling a reunion with us again in some way, and I can think of no greater honour.
Grief is not exclusive to the loss of a loved one, though. There is also grief for a childhood taken, or parents who leave us by degrees through illness. There is grief for the natural birth that never was, and the loss of raising a child as they stride towards independence. There is grief for relationships, careers, stages of life, friendships, and unachieved dreams.
As Nick Cave says in 👉the On Being Podcast with Krista Tippet👈:
“The common energy running through life is loss, but you can translate that into love too.”
And grief is love because somewhere within the pain, it all comes down to loving.
Yet everyone’s grief is different and we all grieve for different things and nobody’s grief is more worthy because each grief is felt keenly. For instance, somehow it feels more socially acceptable to mourn the loss of my mum and my niece, more so than the loss of my dog. But perhaps the thing we, each of us, can do today, is recognise the grief in others in whatever way it might manifest, and extend love to that grief without judgement. Because if we cannot learn to honour grief without comparison, then how can we nurture within ourselves the seeds of compassion that, ultimately, help us keep growing into better people?
Because if we cannot learn to honour grief without comparison, then how can we nurture within ourselves the seeds of compassion that, ultimately, helps us keep growing into better people?
And right there is the joy—we get to reflect, feel, question, and become better people because of the grief that has touched us.
Paradoxically, a gift.
As Nick Cave also says in the same interview:
"The person who is grieving is the closest they will ever be to the fundamental essence of things."
How deeply I feel this.
For me, sometimes grief feels like a brisk early spring breeze coursing through my veins, and sometimes it washes over me like soft summer rain. Other times it pulls me into a cocoon of fallen autumn leaves and there is nothing else to do but be with it…
And sometimes, grief feels like winter; it strips me bare.
How can you help someone grieving?
There is no rulebook but, I think, acknowledging grief with tenderness and understanding and a non-judgemental ear, is a gift to both griever and friend.
Something that stood out to me when I was in the early stages of grieving the loss of my mum and niece, was the friend who every couple of weeks would simply send me a card, or a short note that let me know she hadn’t forgotten I was grieving, that she was sorry, and that she was there when I needed her.
If it is true that loss is the common energy running through life—that we are all grieving something—then perhaps let this be the way of us each and every day.
I want to end this piece of writing that started blankly and somehow shaped into something I now feel is worthy of Milla’s life and legacy, with a heartfelt poem written for her by my beautiful friend, Heidi Pyper:
A Love Poem to Milla
Big joy
starts small
when the wind blows in a friend.
A quiet call
to wrap the earth
in wild hearts
and morning hugs.
Every day you flung wide open,
dashing out in wondrous fields
the first to seize the dew
and never miss a drop,
racing back with all your soul,
to share with us
these precious dreams
before they lost their sparkle.
And we caught each one.
You gave us so much love
all we could do in return was
join you up there on your cloud.
And off we floated
Splashing through oceans and lakes in France,
rolling down tiny country Portuguese lanes
and pausing on Andalusian mountain tops
for a quiet catch-up with the wind.
We thought you were like the trees,
here long after we would be.
Our wild life ever-fortified by rustling leaves
and the comfort of your constant rhythm
reminding us
‘Here we are, here we are, here we are’
Has there ever been a dog that has shone brighter than you, Milla?
Enough to twinkle down on us as we spend another night beneath the stars.
Wise enough to talk to the wind,
(perhaps now she’ll share the stories that you tell)
We miss you and love you always.
It certainly is a dog’s life
When a dog’s life is done well.
Exploring Grief with Kindness