“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” ~Dr. Seuss
The color brown has special significance to me; it’s the color of the robes that my teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh and the monastics wear. It’s the color of my children’s eyes. It’s the color of the soil I like to dig in and plant things. It’s the color of my dog, Jake’s, paws and eyes and eyebrows
My husband came home today with a chocolaty brown gift bag. I could practically smell chocolate just looking at it. I find the color brown to be so comforting, so…grounding—and sometimes so delicious.
He brought the bag home from the veterinarian’s office; and when I realized what it was, the contraction I felt in my chest was met with equal measures of ease and calm. This can only be credited to my practice.
I know that inside this bag there is a little box. And if I open the lid, I will see the entire cosmos—earth, water, air, fire, space, and consciousness.
I will see clouds and flowers; rain and mountains; mud and a lotus. I will see tears of joy and of sorrow, because I will be looking at the remains of a beloved friend, Jake.
Breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.
These words have helped me stay with myself during a time when my four-legged friend was suffering, and when we knew it was an act of mercy to expedite his continuation.
Breathing in, my breath grows deep. Breathing out, my breath goes slowly.
I’m learning about freedom, about joy, about embracing my feelings like a mother embraces a crying baby. So at the veterinarian’s office, I came back to my breathing and held our friend, Jake, and breathed with him as the conditions for his manifestation in his old and sick body ceased; as the veterinarian injected the grapefruit-pink liquid that would liberate him.
Breathing in, I calm my body. Breathing out, I care for my body.
We said goodbye to Jake, to his beautiful brown eyes and eyebrows, his black, white and brown legs, his black body. He was a beautiful Border collie mix.
Sitting in the car in front of the veterinarian’s office crying, a haunting and irresistible sound came out of my purse, which was tucked away on the floor of the car. It was my iPhone playing the song, Ong Namo, sung by Snatam Kaur.
Oddly, I hadn’t listened to this song on my iPhone for months. (more…)