Stop and Smell the Pomegranates

I like to think of myself as someone who lives and speaks my truth. I love hard, and I hurt hard too. Last week I lost my pet of 15 years; she was by my side through every heartbreak and triumph; there was nothing a good cuddle and hand licking couldn’t fix. I’ve experienced loss before; I’ve lost my grandparents, I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost my childhood dog, but there’s still nothing that can prepare you for the gut punch. The despair that leaves you breathless, filled with everything and then, all at once, nothing.

The last time I was with my dog I was leaving for a trip. I had gone through our usual morning routine and then put her in her crate and into the car of the person she was staying with. I was dropped off at the airport and stuck my finger through the metal door as I said goodbye. I thought about taking her out of her crate to cuddle her, hug her and love on her before I left, but I was running a little behind and did it really matter? We cuddled the night before and we could cuddle again in a week, no need for it right this second.

But that moment, that finger through the crate, that was it. That was the final goodbye.

I was so mad at myself for not being there for her when she passed, or the days leading up to it, or getting her out of that damn crate for one last pet. Friends comforted me with a very reasonable response: we never know when a loved one will leave us. And I thought, god, what a world we could live in if we treated every interaction with love, love like we might never have a chance to again. The kind of love poured out in a final hug goodbye at the security line, or a welcome home kiss to someone who has been gone for ages, the kind of love we fall to our knees for, we cry for, we jump into arms for. What if we could walk down the wedding aisle of our life, every day? What if we stopped rushing, just for one moment, and let time drip by like sand in an hourglass, instead of a countdown clock?

With my previous (childhood) dog, when I knew age was getting the best of her, I started to memorize her every feature. I would look at her, and really look at her. The way her hair made little eyebrows, and the feel of her back as I stroked my hand down her fur. I wanted to truly live those moments, so that one day, when I could no longer live them, I could remember them. I did the same for my grandfather as he got older, the way his shoulders bobbed up and down as he chuckled, how he put his hands on his hips as he stood on the porch gazing out onto his land, and how in his final years he called me “hun” with a softness I hadn’t fully appreciated before.

After they passed, I took comfort in them. I would lay awake at night and pull up those memories, and relive them as often as I needed them. So when my most recent dog started aging, I did the same for her. I cuddled with her and memorized her face and took incessant pictures and videos of all of the things I loved about her. So now, when I really miss her, I close my eyes and smell the pomegranates on her fur after a bath, and I feel her warmth curled up by my side at night. I can shut my eyes and go back in time, for just a moment. And though I wish I could rewrite our last moments together, I cherish the memories I saved, the moments I didn’t take for granted.

I’ve spent the last several years telling myself, no THIS is the worst year. Yeah, this year definitely takes the cake (and if you know me, you’re probably nodding your head in agreement). It felt as if one bad thing after another was coming my way, and I was too exhausted to raise my hands in defense anymore. It was as if I could feel rock bottom beneath my feet, and then life said just kidding, FALSE BOTTOM! And another layer below was revealed.

I let time slip through my fingers. I should have treated moments like a child treats bubbles, laughing and shrieking as I feel the residue in my hand of one caught. But often I stood there, letting the bubbles be taken with the wind, to vanish without even an outstretched arm. I can recount all of the times I sat on the lowest rock, all of the times I thought it couldn’t get any worse, all of the times I lost love, lost my pride, lost myself. Yet, there were so many moments where I found myself bathed in the warm sunlight of happiness. Real happiness, too. But no matter how far away I felt from that low, familiar rock, I always had a foot on it, to make sure it was still there. To make sure I didn’t forget that bad is coming; it always comes.

I didn’t memorize the excited look on a friend’s face when they spot me in the crowd, or the way my mom tries to wrap her arms around me to comfort me (but I’m a lot taller now and a little harder to wrangle), or the way my dad answers the phone every time I call with a triumphant shout of my nickname. The little moments I intentionally lived with my dogs and grandparents, because I knew their time might be coming to an end, I wasn’t living with anyone else. I was only saving moments once I realized there might not be many more, but we don’t get to decide how much more we get, and we may not even have the time to realize we’re at the end of them.

The laughing so hard I snort, the hugs that last a lifetime, the excitement of a well-received gift. Moments that I can open on the days I feel like I’m at the bottom, to help me feel the warm sunlight again, and remember that the earth beneath my feet gave me greatness, too.

Grab time in the palm of your hands. Really squeeze it. Focus on the way the lush grass feels underneath you and between your fingertips on a hot day, the cold sand between your toes as you hear the waves greeting the shore, the first drops of cold rain slowly sliding down your cheek as the skies suddenly electrify and roar. Memorize the way your loved one smiles when they catch you looking at them. Look at them. Breathe in the fresh salt air at the edge of the ocean, the way it tastes on your lips, and breathe out the scent of grandma’s homemade cookies.

We are never guaranteed another moment. So save them up. Cherish them. Live them. One day these moments won’t be able to be relived, so look around at your life right now and think about what one day you really, truly want to remember. You want to remember how it felt. How it looked. How it smelled. Now live those moments. And next time you feel your feet on the bottom, take out some of those moments, throw your head back and live them again. And when you’re done, look around you, and make some more. The bottom may greet us from time to time, but we aren’t meant to live there.

Life moves quickly whether you’re living it or not, so be bold, babe, and open the crate one last time.

xoxo

Bold Babe