I feel like I have been teetering and wobbling back and forth between hope and heartbreak. The situation in Ukraine not only breaks my heart on a daily basis but actually often feels like my heart is being shattered.
Watching a news clip of a little boy walking alone down a street in Ukraine, wailing, sobbing, I worry and wonder if his parents have been killed or if he is just a little boy who is tired and scared or lost? Who will be there for this little boy? Who will be there for all the traumatized children—and adults? How does one find hope amidst the bombing, the killings, the torture, the ugly evil that rears its head day after day. The Red Cross and other humanitarian aid struggle and sometimes cannot reach people who are starving, sick, in dire need…heartbreak.
And then I hear a snippet of news that the Ukrainians have re-captured an airport, beat back the Russian troops, more busloads have made it out of the country, President Zelensky still speaks with courage and resolve, NATO nations work together, corporations (at least some of them) sacrifice their profits and stop doing business with Russia to help make sanctions effective, people open their homes to refugee families….hope.
Hope and heartbreak side by side. And my complete lack of power to do anything other than write a check to the World Food Kitchen or to another aid group and pray and pray and pray and hope that it makes some tiny bit of difference.
This collision of hope and heartbreak came into clearer view in an odd way recently when my husband forwarded to me an article from the excellent independent newspaper SEVEN DAYS published in Burlington, Vermont.
The article was about—of all things—the death of a cat. That seems rather insignificant in perspective with world events and yet, sometimes it is the simple things, the rather insignificant things, that reach into our very core with a much larger lesson.
Paula Routly begins her piece with this:
More than 23 million Americans adopted pets during the pandemic, seeking unconditional love, companionship and animal entertainment. My partner, Tim, and I already had all of that in our beloved cat, Frankie, a neutered male gray tiger. We happily let his rituals rule our lives, from 4 a.m. feedings to indoor mouse torture.
Tom and I were not among the 23 million that adopted a pet during the pandemic but it crossed my mind multiple times, though I was strongly leaning towards a dog instead of a cat. Tom wisely kept reminding me that we live in a very small, carpeted apartment on the 4th floor and a dog would mean hoping we could get him/her out of the apartment, down the elevator or stairs and outside without incident or accident multiple times a day. Plus he reminded me that my dog of choice is a Golden Retriever and our residential agreement only allows dogs under 25 pounds.
We have had pets in the past, in our pre-apartment days—a gorgeous, sweetest-in-the world Golden named Garth; Malcolm, a regal if naughty German Shepherd; a variety of cats (Chesai, Piper, Pooper—yes, we really did name a cat Pooper); Max and Pepper, the guinea pigs; ducks; chickens; a beloved goose named Clarabella and even a pig who sported the name Mr. Natural. Yes, we both love animals but we also knew adopting a pet during the pandemic might cause more stress rather than resolving it.
Part of the reason I was able to resist is also because when our dog Garth died, I was completely undone by his death. He died of old age (17 years) and died fairly peacefully, but it was months and months after his death before I could drive into our driveway and make my way to the door of our house without crying. Garth was always there at the door, wagging his tail, so happy to see me when I walked in that door and suddenly, he was no longer there. I don’t do loss easily.
So back to this article in SEVEN DAYS. Back to hope and heartbreak side by side. Isn’t so much of life just like that—hope and heartbreak side by side?
Why is it easier to cry for an animal? Because we let our guard down for them, according to children's author Kate DiCamillo, and they provide a "shortcut to the human heart." A link to her interview last Thursday with "On Being" radio show host Krista Tippett, shared by a thoughtful friend, arrived at just the right moment.
Kids know instinctively that all creatures are sentient, DiCamillo said. Adults choose to forget because "it's too painful."
I remember when our childhood dog, a little mutt named Sukoshi (which means—I think—according to my Dad who named him—“little” in Japanese) died. Again, it was old age but that did not make the heartbreak any easier. I remember sitting on the floor next to his little bed with my mother, both of us stroking his tiny furry head and talking to him about how much we loved him and how much a part of our family he had been for all those years. I remember both of us crying. To this day I am grateful to my mother for showing me that it is okay to cry when your heart is breaking because you love someone—human or animal. As Kate DiCamillo said, animals do provide a “shortcut to the human heart.”
I was in college by that time but my parents got another dog not too long after Sukoshi died. They named him Snoopy. And after Snoopy there was Gabby. Isn’t it amazing how we so easily remember the names of our pets?
As painful as those shortcuts can be, I am grateful. I don’t think we would really understand hope if we did not also know heartbreak at times.
The heartbreak of losing a pet does not compare to losing a child, a parent, a spouse, a brother or sister or any person, but it is through those small heartbreaks that our hearts expand and our compassion for others, for the world, grows. The love we have for animals and people is fuel for hope, for believing the world can and will be a better place. Hope propels us towards a brighter future, a future filled with love. As the poet Rumi says, “Run in that direction.” Always run in the direction of hope and love.
Here is the link to the article in SEVEN DAYS:
https://www.sevendaysvt.com/vermont/from-the-publisher-losing-frankie/Content?oid=35156178
Moving words and such a tender reminder about our pets. My great loss was our dear little dog, Poquito, who died 3 years after my husband passed away. I remember it was early in the morning and I knew that this would be his last day and called the vet to come and help ease his passing. She would not be abe to arrive until late afternoon. So Poquito and I did all his favorite things. He always loved to sit by the front door in the mornings with it opened and just look out, silently. I sat behind him and looked too. It lasted a couple hours. He kept turning his little head as if to make certain I was still there. We sat on the deck and watched the birds overhead. I carried him in my arms outside to look at the beautiful trees and flowers. The entire day we sat and gazed and marveled and looked and dozed. It was unforgettable as you might imagine. One of my most favorite memories.... Such memories help as I watch the horror happening on TV and weep for the Ukrainian people and the global upheaval. Thank you Jeanne for your blog. We are all connected and knowing this means everything.
Anna
Fine commentary on matters close to our core of what it means to be human. We know exactly how you feel with such a loss. It was literally a year and a half after the loss of our beloved Lab before either of us could even utter the phrase "maybe its time to adopt again," even though we missed having an animal companion every day. Surely they bring out the best in us. We owe them much.