Joy Sneaks In

How happiness found its way past the sadness

Hi folks. I hope you’re doing well.

This is my third post that centers on grief, on the loss of my Sasha. (Dang. Losing a beloved dog is tough.) I’ve struggled mightily to try to write. And the writing feels… not good enough. I can’t seem to get it to that place where I think, “Hey, I’m liking this.” Instead, this piece has been languishing for weeks and weeks. And so, since my Substack readers have been remarkably friendly, I’m just going to bite the bullet and give you what I’ve got. I feel like I need to move on and write the next bit. So here’s to getting back on the Substack horse.

Thank you for being here. I truly appreciate it.

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The grief over losing my wonderful, sweet doggie companion, Sasha, has been a journey. Perhaps grief is always a journey — but one that is traveled blindly, not knowing the terrain or what’s around the bend. There are no maps for this. No indication that if you want to arrive somewhere specific (at peace?), that you should take a left at the fork (run around the block screaming?). The GPS only marks “You are here,” not where you might be going next. There’s no sense of the length of the journey, nor of how long the pain will last.

One of the photos on Sasha’s adoption page, when she was still a wee thing. The photo that made me say, “I’ve gotta meet this dog.” (Because isn’t she beautiful, and so intelligent?) And so I did, and it was love from there on out.

So I have been trying to give grief the room it needs, the space it asks for. I allowed the sadness. I relived memories of Sasha even when they stung with sorrow. I sent image after image to be printed at Walgreens, and I made a memory book, beaming at how photogenic she was and relishing all the many delightful moments we shared. I let myself ache to touch her again. I didn’t rush to end the pain but let it ebb and flow. I’ve done my best, and I feel like I’ve managed this better than I could have in the past. I’ve come a long way in learning how to care for myself, and I feel some gentle pride in that.

In the midst of this, I had the wonderful privilege of being able to go to the beach. I wanted to go alone, to have a week of remembering Sasha and writing about our life together. I decided I would lean into grief fully and brought with me six or eight books from the library and two I had bought on the subject of grief and pet loss. Lo and behold, I left my computer behind. This messed up my Substack mojo, dear reader, and it’s taken some time to get back to this.

I’ve often thought of the beach as my happy place. But for so many years, that was with Sasha by my side. With my dear companion pup gone, I wondered if Sasha was my true happy place, or a prerequisite to a place being happy.

First going onto the beach after losing Sasha, grief still pulling me into sadness, I was struck to hear the surf. I struggle with anxiety and so much of what makes me feel crazy seems sound-based. So many sounds spark and drive anxiety. But the sound of surf is the safest sound in the world for me. The sound of the waves coming to shore? Peace.

But first returning to the beach, I was reminded of peace — but I didn’t feel it. Seeing a great blue heron that first day, I thought, “I normally love seeing those,” but I lacked the joy.

Then a new day dawned, much the same as every day since losing Sasha. I grabbed a beach chair and set myself up on the beach with books, phone, my journal, and pens. At some point, I looked up and was struck to find a heron nearby, maybe only 15 feet away. My heart leapt to find it so close to me.

I started taking photos with my phone. I zoomed in. I played with angles. I got close to the ground so the heron’s head appeared higher than the water. I approached the bird. I sat in the sand. More photos. More, more. This beautiful and intimidating creature. The yellow eyes, the sharp beak. The feathers of the wing. The foot and the fascinating, elegant way the foot lifts then broadens and settles with each step.

Joy had snuck in.

And it was lovely.

The heron that frequents this beach area has been christened “Fred.”

Would Sasha mind?

I say no.

I believe Sasha would not need or seek for me to be in deep, heavy grief forever.

It’s perhaps not sadness that honors her memory, but love. And the love remains. It will always remain.

The heron kept returning throughout the week. I’ve never seen him so much. (If “Fred” truly is a “he.”) Granted, I’ve always been there with a dog. But this felt different. Special. It moved me. Friends suggested that Sasha had sent him. My head struggled to make that leap, but my heart… my heart felt full.

Sasha’s loss has had less gravity since then. It began as a black hole, something from which even light cannot escape. It moved on to being like the sun, something around which all my thoughts and feelings orbited. Now, most of the time, the thoughts of Sasha are like a beautiful nebula, there in the sky night and day, gorgeous to behold.

Photo by Aldebaran S on Unsplash

Sasha enriched my life. She loved me with fierceness, loyalty, and beauty that only a doggie can muster. I’m eternally grateful to her and for her.

Ugh. Those words sound stilted, sterile. What’s happening is that I’m crying. Just. I fucking love her. I’d take her back any day, any time. Words are inadequate. Sasha was not.

Thank you, my sweet girl. I’ll never forget you. And thanks for the heron.