This is a time that requires the very best of us…to give of ourselves to those caught between the sorrow of their loss and the joy of the season. I encourage you to make a list of anyone you know who has suffered a loss this past year. If they live locally, make an effort to connect, even if just over coffee, for a chat in the next weeks. If they live afar, commit to making a phone call instead of relying on email or Face Book. This is a time for low tech, high touch!

And if it’s you…reach out to family and dear friends. Share your memories, and rejoice in the time you had together.

“For what is this Season of Light about? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is my fervent wish that every cup overflows with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.” Agnes M. Pharo

And are as natural as breathing

Miracles are for anyone who believes…

This is the Heart of Hanukkah

This is the Soul of Christmas

May the Grace of this Mystical Season

Bless you Now and Always

“This is my sixth year as a Celebrant and I have learned so much about services. When a family wants their voices to be heard, I encourage it and take a step back. I still organize the service, help with music and details, but I willingly act as more of a Celebrant emcee. I’m finding more families want to tell stories at the funeral – they feel they owe it to their loved one. My role seems to be different with every family, depending on their needs and requests. I find that there is room for all of it, as long as you’re answering the need with great care and compassion…”

Having lived in Los Angeles for 28 years, this Mexican holiday, El Dia de los Mueros, was celebrated right along with our Hallowe’en, although they have completely different origins. Just today, a dear friend reported to me that she had visited Olvera Street for their Day of the Dead celebrations, and I had a moment of envy, and a flashback to the colorful carnival atmosphere, where death is celebrated and even sometimes mocked.

El Dia de los Muertos occurs on November 2 in connection with the Catholic holidays of All Saints’ Day (November 1) and All Souls’ Day (November 2). Mexicans gather in families to celebrate and remember their loved ones who have died by bringing food, marigolds, candles, incense, photos and other memorabilia to an altar especially created for the occasion. Graves are visited, flowers placed, and even drink such as tequila is brought to the graveside. Skulls are a predominant emblem and show up in many varieties, even as small candies, shaped like Calaveras (skulls and skeletons.) All in all, it is colorful, and joyful, and reflects a sensibility towards death that is not usually found here.

Dad’s home, like all the homes on this street, was built in the early 1900’s. There is a white picket fence with an inviting arbor entry that almost hides the touchpad that, with its secret codes, allows the door to unlock. There is always one or two of the sixteen residents that gather at the door to welcome those coming to visit. Dad, for the last six months, is the only man in residence. The owner is Christine, a beautiful energetic woman with whom Dad has a somewhat difficult relationship. You see, as his ability to control his life has diminished with progressive dementia and physical frailty, the ego has devised a scheme to appease the anguish. Dad thinks he is the manager of the home. He gives his opinions and orders to Christine with great authority, dismissing her as merely a pretty woman who can’t possibly know how to run a business. Christine is very kind, and very patient; however there have been times, at the advice of the psychiatrist treating Dad, she has had to be very firm with him.

Well, today that is all behind us.

The big parlor of the B & B is very Englishy, a hodge-podge of furnishings and artwork, cabinets filled with old tea services, beautiful mahogany woodwork, untidy bookshelves, tapestries, a Grandfather clock, and still some Christmas cards displayed on the high moldings. The adjacent breakfast room is bright and airy. Jim and his wife don’t live here; they own the house next door. I haven’t yet seen any other guests. So now, as I get ready to cross the street to Dad, I am alone. Can’t I just stay in this cozy place, and hold vigil here? After all, I can see into his room. The lamp in the corner is on.

I make my way into Dad’s home, smile and greet the residents gathered in the front hall, waiting to be called in to lunch. One, I think her name is Emily, invites me to sit beside her at lunch.

In Dad’s room, I find him very anxious. Even under morphine, he appears to be in pain, even though I know it is not physical pain. He tries to open eyes that just won’t open, and he is trying to speak, but no words come. His arms flail, his fists clench. I kiss his forehead; it is clammy and cool. I tell him he is dying, and I have come to stay with him and that Katharine will be here soon, and that we love him and he is safe. I have asked for a CD player, but the one found is broken. Christine’s husband is called, and a short time later, arrives with their boombox from home. I light a candle and wrap my prayer beads around it. It comforts me to know the candle will burn, at my request, all through the days and nights. I put some music on and try to settle into reading.

Carolyn is the day shift RN. She is wonderful, so good with Dad, talking reassuringly and lovingly with him as she shifts him to another position. Later in the evening, Christine comes in and asks my permission to speak with Dad. She takes his hand, and kisses it. She talks to him about forgiveness, of himself and others, including herself, and she lets him know she forgives him for the times he was unkind to her. She tells him he is dying to this earthly life, leaving a body that no longer serves him, and that it is good. She ends with a prayer. I silently weep.

I arise to the most spectacular spring day. Showers and gusty wind and rainbows, pink whirls of blossoms from the cherry tree raining down. All over Victoria the cherry trees and forsythia are in bloom. The oaks are yet to green up, their starkness providing a lovely balance to the riotous color of flowers and blossoms. I am filled with love for this little city of my childhood. At 6:30 I go over to check on Dad; he seems much quieter this morning. The doctor was by last evening while I was out to dinner, and upped the morphine dose. I return to the B & B to shower and have breakfast. Breakfast is amazing. Real Scottish oatmeal with heavy cream and brown sugar, scrambled eggs with sautéed mushrooms and toast. Comfort food.

Dad’s breathing is shallow now, with more space between the breaths. Carolyn has just come in to put on the nitro patch. Later in the early afternoon I go for a walk, in search of a glass of red wine. Jim has referred me to a pub nearby. On the way back, I pick a little twig, all green with new life, a little forsythia and some other small yellow flower. A pretty touch for the altar. I decide to look for an aromatherapy shop for some oil to anoint Dad’s forehead with. I trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Down I go, skinning both knees and the heel of my left hand. The teenagers at the bus stop just look at me, as I pick myself up and continue on, the tears beginning to sting more than the knees. I stop in a candle shop looking for oil, and the shop girls look strangely at me. I realize what a mess I am, and head back to Dad’s. Still crying, I allow Carolyn to take care of my knees.

Katharine arrives from Vancouver around six. She is very fragile emotionally as she put her little cat, Lucy, to sleep last week and just yesterday buried her, along with the ashes of her cat Ricky. I realize just how much loss this family has experienced in such a short time: Ricky in December 2002, my cat Kitty two days later, and then our mother in January of 2003. The next month, my cat Mary and my daughter’s little dog Joe. Now, barely one year later, Lucy…and Dad.

Carolyn tells Katharine she feels Dad needs to hear from her that he provided well for us, and that we will be ok when he leaves. She speaks softly to him. We stay til about 10.

It’s Friday morning the 26^th of March. The day arrives quietly. Not a trace of the wildness of yesterday. Not even the smallest leaf is fluttering. Stillness. At breakfast, I glance across the street to Dad’s window. The lamp in the corner is on.

Dad’s breathing heavily this morning, and his body twitches. It feels like today is the day. Two of the aides that no longer work in the home arrive just to say goodbye. They are beautiful young Filipino girls, all glowing soft skin and shiny dark eyes. They press their young cheeks close to his and both cry. They tell him and us how much they love him. We later leave for a 1 o’clock appointment with the Funeral Home.

Back by 1:30 (no place is very far away in Victoria), we watch Dad as he becomes more and more agitated. We talk to him and Katharine strokes his forehead while I hold his hand. He quiets down. We leave at 2:30 for a quick bite to eat, and when we arrive back less than an hour later, Christine rushes to meet us at the door. Dad died at 3:08. Did he wait for us to leave? Perhaps. We sit with him, in silence, I in prayer. Later, we leave and take a very long walk, maybe a couple of hours. We walk through the gardens at Government House. The ducks with their ducklings waddle up to us looking for food. The gardens are so beautiful. I can smell the moist earth and rosemary as we pass the herb garden, and lavender too, and we have a magnificent view of the water. We are quiet, and when we talk, it is to say how grateful we are to have each other. Later, at dinner, we give a toast to our father, and, as the sky darkens, we watch the lights of the Inner Harbor begin to twinkle. We drive back to Dad’s the long way, around the waterfront, to pack up the few things remaining. The room is empty and dark. The lamp in the corner is off.

This was written just after my father died, in the lovely drawing room of the B&B I was staying in.

How does anyone make it together

for fifteen years? she asked.

I told her what I know.

That the best way is by leaping together

into the deepest black water.

The best way is by putting it all on the table.

Risking more than we can stand to lose.

Do that, and life throws you a party in your honor.

Throw aside dark fears

and lay your most shameful secrets

into the hand of your lover.

Then river otters will slip and slide

down delicious muddy banks,

wetly singing songs of praise.

Accept with gratitude

the weakness and the beauty

of the sacred fool you love,

and writers in Amsterdam and Topeka

will suddenly know the perfect

ending for their story.

Do these things, and Brazilian schoolgirls

will break into spontaneous sambas

across hot cement playgrounds.

Do this, and ranchers in the lower valley

will bring home all lost calves

well  before nightfall.

~ Victory Lee Schouten

Eyes open, I see my sleeping cats: the oh-so-narcissistic Rocky and sweet, blue-eyed Sky. I smile. And yet I know someday they, too, will move out of my life.

We who choose to live with other sentient beings are blessed. We get to experience a deep connection with another species (to the extent we are open to it) and in doing so, expand our capacity to give and receive love.

With the death of a cherished pet, some of us find ourselves flooded with a grief that overwhelms us with its intensity. Following are a few insights and suggestions to assist you during this time.

Allow. Honor yourself and your beloved friend by allowing the expression of feelings. Give yourself permission to fully grieve, even if it feels scary. It may mean some restless nights, exhaustion, and/or taking some time off your regular routine to just be. As much as is possible, give yourself this time.

Ask. Reach out to trusted family and friends and let yourself be supported. If for any reason this is not possible, there are resources available in the form of books, counselors and pet bereavement sites on the Internet. This applies also if your pet is still living but going through a terminal illness. It is crucial to be supported at this confusing and painful time that can bring up doubts about what is the right thing to do, and asks so much of you as a caregiver holding the high watch over your pet.

Action. Find a way to express your feelings. Write a letter to your animal companion, make a painting or photo collage, or arrange a memorial service or ritual to honor your pet. It could be a simple gathering of others who knew and loved your pet, with stories and remembrances to celebrate her life.

Above all, remember it is okay to grieve. A pet’s death is significant. This is a being you have had daily contact with, whose essence is clearly imprinted on every aspect of your home and heart. This is a being that has loved and known you. A family member.

The passing of a pet can often be a child’s first experience with death. This gives parents an opportunity to assist their child through the grieving process. Unresolved grief from childhood can often have a negative effect on personal growth and development later in life. There are some wonderful books written for children on the death of a pet, and many resources on the Internet  to assist you in understanding how children perceive death at different ages.

As I write this, Rocky sits patiently watching the robins . . .

This was written before Rocky died. Sky and I have since welcomed a very fun boy named Lenny into our hearts.

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass
and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth
and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

~Rabindranath Tagore

According to the National Pet Owners Survey conducted by the American Pet Products Association (APPA), in 1988, 56 percent of all U.S. households owned a pet. In 2009, the APPA reported that 62 percent of U.S. households own a pet.

Today, 77 million dogs and 94 million cats live with Americans and more than half of these pet owners identify their pets as members of the family.

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