Little Velvet has passed in Chris’s arms, hearing Frieda’s voice. Frieda is in Montana though now on her way back.

It’s hard to understand such loss, to be with the weight of continuing grief. Perhaps it’s the release of a dam that allows us to think we have some sort of control, but, no, we learn we don’t. All that matters is Love, and that is what Velvet, and her brother Senna, and others, give. As John Squadra wrote, and I often say, “When we love, we create a circle. When we die, the circle remains,” and so the circle of love Velvet, little Vellie created, remains.

This little girl battled cancer like no one I’ve ever seen, well, maybe my brother. The two of them gave it their all, and now, they’re out of pain, and we here struggle as tears come to eventually wash away grief.

 This morning I’m humming the song Mariah.  There are two songs from my childhood: Que Sera and Mariah.  Steve points out I’m humming again which is curious because after a beautiful day, last night hammered in as a tough one.  

My son and his wife, Chris and Frieda, adopted a rescue Keeshond a few years ago.  Velvet’s owner had passed away and Velvet is a light in their lives. She is one of those enlivened beings who lifts you in a smile. She loves life and her huge brown eyes shine bright.  Spirit pours through.

When they got her they found out she had cancer but they thought surgery got it all but it’s been a battle and the sweet little thing has once again been undergoing chemotherapy for cancer treatment.  Today they’ll find out if there is no hope and they need to put her to sleep or if she can be kept alive a month or two so they’ll have time to prepare. She had another transfusion last night.

They’re not ready.  I understand. I’m not ready either and I don’t understand why it’s so painful and hard.  I’m once again caught as though I’m in a hammock or on a trampoline and I’m struggling to get out or off.  I need a pause, and I know I’m the only one who can create one. My brother passed 73 days ago, and I wonder what it is to navigate this thing called “fun”.

Katy and I shared a wonderful day yesterday, had brunch at Cavallo Point and again a Great Blue Heron stood watch.  I sit with it now, this pain of letting go. I want to understand. I’m trying to be compassionate with myself, and then, a voice comes in, “Can’t you move along? What’s wrong with you?”

Last night Frieda posted what BARK – Bay Area Rescue Keeshond had posted on Velvet – Vellie – people are praying for her, and I think of connection, and how these people are praying for this bright spirit of a dog, and how the little dear came into our lives to give us what we need, the ability to allow even more tears, tears of love, compassion, and connection, tears of liquid love, to fall.

When Chris was in second grade, his fish died.  It was one of those fish you “win” at a fair. He needed to go to school as it was a nation-wide test day but when I drove him, he wouldn’t get out of the car.  I went in and spoke with the teacher and she said it was important to honor his grief, to take him home and be with the loss of the fish. There’s always another day for making up what’s missed.  I feel like I’ve given myself time, and then it’s like there’s another hit, another need to mobilize and honor the complexity of this amazing world we share.  

I’m with that now, with sensitivity, and grief.  I know grief carves out more room for joy. I know this, but some days, and this is one of them, it’s tough to mobilize on that knowing and now I remember a jewelry box I had as a child.  When I opened the lid, a tiny ballerina spun around on a point on a mirror.  

May that be me today, a ballerina spinning on a fine point as we take the ferry to the city knowing there are many prayers in the air for Little Vellie. I trust the love she gives and the fighter she is, and that, she, too, that little fur ball, with many shaved places for surgery and insertions, has her own path, and there is love.

My niece Katy is here.  Last night we talked and cried, hugged, talked, and cried.  I slept peacefully and well, woke with a fullness that’s been elusive since my brother’s passing seventy-two days ago.  There is a hearth of healing, a family light.

My brother passed 71 days ago.  This morning I’m out early watering on a beautiful day.  I see how different are the plants in my yard, different colors, sizes, and types of needles, petals, and leaves.  They have differing water requirements. Why then do I think each day will be the same as to how I handle grief?

Today there is sorrow and a weight to grief, and we’re gathering again, a smaller group, but still there is gathering and group.  There is the pain of letting go, and awareness of transformation and growth.