Grief

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost a pet.

He was a rascal and a renegade. He was all of seven pounds, my gorgeous seal point Siamese companion.

I named him Fraidy Cat because I gravitate toward ironic names, I called our previous cat Doggie, because he was clearly a dog in a cat suit.

When I walked into the room to pick a kitten, they all scattered, except him; he ran up to me, meowing his face off. “Well, aren’t you brave, you’re a pipsqueak but you sure aren’t a Fraidy cat” I said as I scooped him up in one hand.
He looked at me with his cornflower blue eyes and that settled it, he’d sealed the deal and stolen my heart.

I’d always had indoor cats, it was better for their physical health and MY mental health; you see I’m a worrier; so if my cats were to go outside, Tom-cating around, not being there when I needed him, getting dirty, I’d knew I’d freak.

So he spent his days at the windows, howling to get out, jumping at the glass, shredding the screens.
I spent my days inside my very convenient denial, that is, until the guy I was dating at the time, a huge cat lover, took me by both shoulders, guiding me to the screen door, kicked it open and held me there while Fraidy bolted OUTSIDE and up a tree. He’d howled at the birds in that tree for two years, coveting their freedom, now he was up there, climbing among the leaves; I had to admit – he looked ecstatic.

That was the start of his outdoor life.
Being the rule setter that I am, I did instill some parameters – furry little rascals need boundaries.
When we shook the container of dried food – dinner time.
Once he was in for the night, that was it, he used the cat box and slept inside, on my pillow, or in my armpit.
I fed him and let him out when I got up. It became a routine that made us both happy. On the weekends, when I was around, he’d stick close to home, rolling on my little patio in the sun. Life was good.

The longest he ever stayed away was three days, and I lost. my. mind.
When he finally did show up, he was filthy and starving, with a far away look in his eyes – like he’d seen too much. He’d clearly lost one of his lives.
He didn’t have much to say for himself, and after twenty-four hours of my interrogation and his silent treatment – I made him promise that there would NEVER be a next time – and it was never spoken of again.

When I moved to my current house (which came with a cat door – it was a sign) he had a companion by then, Teddy, who was his polar opposite.
Teddy was a fat (I mean big-boned) Teddy bear of a cat, a grateful, gregarious, well-mannered rescue Siamese, who never went much further than the backyard or the front porch.

Fraidy, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement every morning when I’d open the door to the pantry so he could get to the cat door and start his day. He loved all the mature trees in the neighborhood and brought me presents on a regular basis, (dead birds, mice and once a baby possum) to express his gratitude for the change of locale.
The fauna around the house submitted a petition and formed a coalition to ban Fraidy from certain sections of their territory – but he wasn’t having it. ALL of Studio City was his domain.

Seriously –– All of it.

I found that out in the most profound way, when in June of 2006, seven years after moving to this house and navigating coyotes, traffic and other cats, Fraidy broke our agreement and went missing – for a long time.

It was an unseasonably hot Memorial Weekend, and after shattering his previous three-day record, I started to really worry, putting up signs and calling his name around the neighborhood.
That’s when I got the calls, from far and wide, coming from miles around. “Your little Siamese, yeah, I see him all the time; but it’s been awhile” one caller five blocks over reported.
“That Siamese with the red collar, he was in my backyard as usual just last week, that’s the last time I saw him. I’ll call you if I see him, I hope he comes back.” That lady lived across Tujunga, a big street with fast-moving traffic, which made my stomach turn, I had NO IDEA he was wondering that far from home.

One evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a cat walking up the sidewalk toward the house.
A small, skinny Siamese.
Fraidy?
I had all but given up, it had been seventeen days.

I stopped the car in the middle of the street, jumped out and called his name, and he came running over like nothing was out of the ordinary – but it was.
I swept him into my arms and ran inside calling Raphael the whole way. I couldn’t believe he was back. “It’s him right?” I kept asking.

It was weird, he hadn’t lost any weight, he still had his red collar with all his tags on, he was clean, un traumatized and purring away.
“Smell that” Raphael was now holding him, pushing his body into my face, “he still smells like your perfume” (I wasn’t wearing any that night) and he did, he reeked of my scent.

“Someone obviously had him” everyone said, happy that he’d reappeared.
“Yeah I guess; someone who wears my perfume which is discontinued and impossible to get.”

He seemed genuinely happy to be back.
Man I wish he could have told me where he’d been over a glass of wine and a can of tuna, I’m sure it was an incredible story.

A few days later we left for a week in Palm Springs with my whole extended family, a friend was staying at the house with the cats.

I felt uneasy, I didn’t want to leave Fraidy – his return to me after such a long time was so remarkable ; it was as if he’d returned from the dead. He was my Lazarus cat. 

(To be continued)

My friend and I were talking yesterday, reminiscing about the state of the world, immediately following 9/11.
Everyone was shell shocked, which disarmed their defenses.
People were kind. They went out of their way to help, they got involved.

Even the French. If you can believe it.

I can say that. I’m married to a Frenchman.
Actually he’s half French, half American.
He has the arrogance and love of food of a Francophile, the other half, Yankee Ingenuity and some Huckleberry Finn “Aww shucks.”

We were given ninety days to use our honeymoon tickets, whose dates fell inside those post September 11th “no air travel” dates.
Wasn’t that nice of them?
It was Air France, so yes, it was EXTREMELY nice of them.

Just under a month later we jetted off to Paris to visit his family.
Italy would have to wait.

“Air travel is safer than it’s ever been” he kept reassuring me, “they’re not going to use planes again, not with everyone watching.”

I suppose he was right, but there weren’t enough drugs in the world to get me through the airport, with the new security and National Guard presence, and then allow me to spend eleven hours in high altitude anxiety, without a puke or five.

Once we landed, I noticed it right away. The energy was palpably different.

There wasn’t any fear in Europe. No recent trauma.
No low grade anxiety that we, in the US, had been marinating in for a month.

I felt lighter immediately.
I felt I could smile and laugh again – except it was Paris and that’s forbidden.

Then an anomaly occurred.
Once a person heard me speak English, they would ask: American? I’d nod, and they would touch my shoulder or take my hand, “So sorry” they would attempt in their best American accent.

Are you kidding me?

In bistros, they would meet my eyes when they heard me speak, and give me a very soulful, extremely sympathetic, little grin. A sort of Mona Lisa smile of compassion. With a tilt of the head.

That’s a HUGE outpouring of emotion for them. I was very, very touched.

The take away for me on that trip and in the weeks and months that followed the tragedy of 911 was this: the world can feel like such a small place. Like a little community, where we all feel each other’s pain.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever noticed that.

The country that holds most Americans in low regard, (I know, BROAD generalization, but…) touched my heart and shared my grief.

Instead of cringing when they heard me speak, which I’ve experienced more times than I can count, my American-ness drew them to me like a magnet, so they could extend their sympathies.

We were all just citizens of the world…for awhile.
I miss that.

Sending Saturday Love,
Xox

I love our Wednesday Women’s group. We get together after a long day, notebooks in hand, and settle into our sacred circle with the intention to transform our lives. We let loose the habits shaped from our pasts, divulge an occasional secret dream, and bask in the fertile conversations of our lives reimagined. Even though Saturday put up a good fight, Wednesday is now my favorite night of the week.

This week we discussed gratitude. I LOVE me some Gratitude, and its sister, Appreciation. I truly believe they are the stepping-stones to a happier existence. I’ve witnessed how they can literally transform a life.

That being said, when terrible things happen in life, and they do; the losses, the failures, the disappointments and the heartbreaks. You do yourself a disservice by immediately slapping a happy face bandage over the feelings.

Back in the day at the start of the “New Age” movement, it was taught that everything could be solved with a positive affirmation and a side of gratitude.
“Be grateful that your life is in shambles, you’ll be a better person. Now say this affirmation: When shit rains down on me, I will smile and grab an umbrella”.

So, that’s what a lot of us did.

I did.

I was the poster child for laughing through tears. I had notes with positive affirmations stuck all over my house. I had them written in lipstick on my bathroom mirror.

I firmly believed that I could “positive think” my way out of every sad, sucky situation. But there was no feeling behind my gratitude, it was all lip service. I was hurting and the last thing I held in my heart at that moment was appreciation for the situation. I could have tattooed an affirmation on my forehead, that still wouldn’t have made it so.

When you know this stuff as well as I do, you think you should implement all the teachings you have in your back pocket to navigate your pain. All you do is delay it. Pain, anger, grief and the rest of the crew HAVE TO BE FELT in order to dissipate.

Then, and only then, can the gratitude flood in and fill the void.
But not one minute before.

Oh shit.
I messed that up for over thirty-five years.

I’ve had “delayed reaction syndrome” regarding my darker emotions. Sadness hits me months later. I can throw a dinner party with balloons and sing with the band minutes after terrible news.

I’m THAT girl.

I misunderstood the directive: This too shall pass.
I never let it pass me, I ran faster, in my endless race of avoidance.

I used to feel guilty for feeling sad and wanting to cry all day. I thought I should be able to rise above it. I would gear up with my pad of Post Its and search for the silver lining every time life took a terrible turn. But often that lining is buried deep under multiple layers of anger, pain and resentment. You have to really get in there and mine for it. Otherwise, a positive affirmation scab can form, and everything just festers underneath.

It’s not pretty, I don’t recommend it.

I do believe you can “Fake it, till you make it” which is affirming a behavior as you learn it, but not until the underlying issues are resolved.
Oh yeah….that.

I hold such deep admiration for those cultures where it’s accepted to wail with grief. Men AND women, what a relief that must be. They just give into it, and let all that emotion out. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. Seems so much healthier.

I’m always afraid the sadness will be so deep it will swallow me whole, and my wailing will never cease. Dogs will continue to hear it for weeks and pray for sweet relief.

So this is my cautionary tale of not reaching for gratitude too soon.

We discussed this at length on Wednesday, because we are all about transition through transformation. We all agreed that we would not cheerlead someone out of their pain. Myself included, because I am the biggest offender. We would hold the place for them to feel through the layers until the onion is peeled.
We won’t let them wallow either. Tightrope walking, I know. But so do-able in this group, and for that I am TRULY grateful.

Are you someone who can process your emotions in real-time, or are you more like me with “delayed reaction syndrome”. Let me know in the comments below.

XoxJanet

There are other professions in the world, besides therapist and psychologist, that lend themselves to hearing other people’s problems, and maybe or maybe not, dispensing council or giving advise.

Priests comes to mind. They’re lucky. In their confessional, they are provided anonymity, although I could always recognize their voices, and I’m sure they knew mine. They could pretend to sit, void of judgement, as I confessed to hitting my brother, their smirks hidden behind a dark screen. When they asked me why, I always answered: because he’s incorrigible, which is a word I heard used at home to describe him.
I do think the darkness, their half hidden faces, and lack of eye contact, did help the ladies who went into the box before me. They stayed for what felt like hours! They must have had much juicer sins than mine, and truly sought his council and forgiveness.
I was ten, I was just going throughout the motions.

My friends who have tended bar, got their ears bent nightly, big time! They may not have had a diploma on the wall, but by golly, they have HEARD IT ALL!
Since they were not sworn to any oath of confidence, and often copious amounts of alcohol were involved, they had the BEST stories!
Tales of love, betrayal, treachery, cheating, twins with amnesia, men as women, women as men. If it’s been a plot on a soap opera, they’ve heard it, ’cause that shit is REAL!

I on the other hand, have been in some form of retail most of my life. This has made it very easy for “those that seek advice” to find me. I was captive behind a supermarket check out counter in my teens and early twenties, where the inventive, provocative and hilarious confessions I heard when guys purchased condoms or tampons, or both, could fill a book. Believe me, I never asked, they just volunteered the information.

Later, I was behind a jewelry showcase, and most recently the desk at my own store. Over the years I’ve had many regular patients…I mean customers, who would come by to seek an opinion or get some advise. Some just wanted to vent….I guess I just have that kind of face.

Here is what I know for sure: Everyone’s got a story. Most are interesting, many are funny, some are heartbreaking.

When I was working in Estate Jewelry, the store was in West Hollywood, Beverly Hills adjacent. When those stories walked in, they were no different than everyone else’s, just dressed up with better shoes and handbags.

I sold antique engagement rings, or rather, because of their beauty, they sold themselves, but I stood and told their story. Fifty percent of the time, it was just the man looking. He wanted it to be a surprise. Because of his nerves and the unusual circumstance of buying an engagement ring, I heard their love stories, their hopes, their fears, and often way too much information! Over twenty years, I have literally held their hands to calm them down, explained women and what we want, and I have even told half a dozen men: Honey, you’re not ready to do this.
One sweet guy brought his beloved with him on the third visit, she was acting so ungrateful, spoiled and awful that as he left, I passed him a piece of paper that advised him to “run for the hills”!

Another situation I’ll never forget.
A woman came in to pick up her husband’s watch repair.
Now, it had been repaired twice before, and this third time was NOT the charm. 
We sold vintage watches, so they had to be wound and I couldn’t get the thing to tick!
Unfortunately, the woman was wound so tight she flew into a rage. She threw the watch against the wall, where it exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces, some even hitting her in the face. She called me and the store every curse word known to man…and then some.
Since our store was in an open mall sort of setting, the whole place could hear her, and everyone froze. So did I.
She stood there in her rage, her face red, her body trembling.
On life’s 1-10 scale of “How upset do I get about this”, the actual situation was a 3, maybe a 4. She was having a 25 reaction. THAT is always a clue for me. From working with the public for so many years, I can recognize that when the response doesn’t match the situation, there’s a backstory, something else is going on.
I slowly and silently walked around from behind the counter, and touched her arm.
I was shaking now too.
I gently pulled her out of view of the peanut gallery, and softly whispered, “what’s really going on here?”
She started to wail. That deep, low, wailing-crying that people usually do in private. “My husband is dying across the street at Cedars” she sobbed. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just hugged her…for a long time. Then we got on our hands and knees and started to pick up the pieces of the watch, just like she was grasping at the pieces of her disintegrating life.

I may not have been a professional, but this retail therapist knew better than to yell back or poke someone who was clearly on the edge. Thank God!

I know I’m not alone in this. If we deal daily with a large cross section of the public, 
we really do get the opportunity, no, the the privilege to get a glimpse inside people’s lives. Hopefully we have the sensitivity to respond not react.

Everyone’s got a story. What’s yours?
XoxJanet 
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This video is so clever! Using the voice of the brilliant Brene Brown. It’s short, sweet and insightful.
Enjoy!

Do you suppose if a wound is real deep, the healing of it can hurt almost as bad as what caused it?
~Spitfire Grill~

As the anniversary of Sandy Hook approaches I’m reminded of 
how unbearable the healing process must be like for the family of the victims. 
Yet, every time I see or read an interview I am completely knocked out by the courage and resilience these ordinary people are exhibiting.

Grief is such a solitary emotion, NO ONE can make you feel better.
People can help you, 
they can feed you, 
they can sit with you, 
and even share their experiences, but ultimately you are alone on your path as you wade through that Valley of Darkness.
The darkness is tangible, no flashlight, not even a match to light your way.

Some days the emotions come in waves so strong they knock you completely off balance, 
on your ass, 
where you may remain for several hours…or days.

What I’m finding so incredibly uplifting is that these parents of the children and families of the educators that perished, seem to be able to let the light in.
They are getting up, and forming foundations and organizations in their loved ones honor.
They are having all sorts of dreams and spiritual visions of their kids,
And…they are letting the love flow in.

Ian Hockley, father of Dylan, who was one of the first graders killed last year, said this in a recent interview, regarding navigating his grief:

“So you’ve got to flip it around, Everything is about flipping emotions. Not hate, no hate. Flip it over. The other side is love, right? Take that and build, because once you push the hate out, the love just flows in.”

I just find that so remarkable and inspiring!
There is forgiveness in there,
There is compassion in there
There is so much courage it makes me weep.

He’s just a regular guy who lost his son,
He’s not the Dali Lama,
Or Ghandi,
Yet he’s made the choice, for his own well being to release the hate,
and let the love flow in.
And I’m convinced the world is better for it,
which means this tragedy was not in vain.

Xox Janet