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Tag Archives: Reflection

Ashes-n-Ink

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I had heard of memorial tattoos in the past, typically those emblazoned with names and dates.  More recently with the evolution of the art form, portrait types have become popular.  I had even heard something about a more extreme commitment, using a little cremation ashes in the ink.

I have collected a few tattoos over the years, prior to their current popularity.  They are mostly personalized designs; with no special meaning attached other than being decades’ old souvenirs of simpler times.  So the idea and realities of inked skin was not new to me.  I pondered the idea, with my twist.  The thought of replicating some of Sarrah’s favored spots around what I already had, seemed appealing to me.

I went to a tattoo convention January Twenty Second, Two Thousand Eleven, in Marysville.  This in itself was an interesting and distracting new experience that I found to be mostly tailored to the kind of artwork that I already had.  Out of all of the colorful artists I found a few potentials and let my mind work further.  If I decided to have this done, I wanted the right vibe to be part of the experience, in some kind of appropriate atmosphere, where the intent of meaning could be felt.  I did some internet surfing of these possibilities, viewed more of their artworks and refined my search.

I visited the Hidden Hand tattoo parlor in the unique neighborhood of Fremont, tucked under a building; interestingly just down the street from where Sarrah had gone for acupuncture and ultimately her last trip.  I met with the artist Roni, who combined with the atmosphere and locale, seemed right.  I gave her artistic freedom with photos of Sarrah and tracings of my foot.  My initial reaction to her emailed design was, “Wow, that’s bigger than I had envisioned” but I kept it to myself to live with the idea.  And like Sarrah, the artwork quickly grew on me.  I decided that a design to honor my best friend, deserved Big.

The unedited work of art with some of Sarrah’s ashes in the black ink was done June Seventeenth, Two Thousand Eleven; on what would have been her 13th birthday.  Now, she can walk with me… for the rest of my journey.

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I am not promoting tattoo’s in any way (I actually liked them more before the herds gravitated), but to my un-expecting open mindset, I did feel some relief in the pain of it.  The artwork healed nicely and serves me with a little visual solace, which most likely only I understand, making it better.

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Surroundings

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Walking through the streets of my forty-plus year old working-class suburban neighborhood with Sarrah, where I had lived for around eight years, I started to notice and discover things.  The little stuff missed when driving on autopilot, getting from home to wherever and back, even those details that I had somehow missed when just out for a leisurely drive.

Like watching the ‘big hair’ artist Bob Ross on television go at it with a canvas; the brilliant colors, smells and sounds all quickly join in to complete the picture.  With repetition and varied routes we viewed houses, landscapes, people and how they live in different kinds of light.  Sarrah’s frequent pausing to bark at shut-in dogs, sniff shrubs and investigate everything worthy created endless opportunities to look around.  As new discoveries were added into the mix, smaller details were exposed.  A daily dose gives an observer some sense of goings on; projects, maintenance and all changes are easily noticed.  I enjoy seeing pride of possession, on any scale.

I have always noticed the houses with architectural flair, typically those older ones with added attention to detail, built when priorities were different.  By walking I discovered even more.  In particular, landscaping; how it is designed, maintained and evolves has always been an eye catcher for me, but actually walking right beside it and in some cases through it via public sidewalks, paints the picture more clearly.  I like to see timeless balance within a property, an organic harmony between the land and its buildings.  This varied equilibrium is hard to achieve and almost impossible for me to describe with a handful of words, but I think that you know it when you see it.

Down the street four houses resides an old decrepit evergreen tree on the corner.  This poor tree is in a crappy location and does its part to let everyone know that it is unhappy.  It grew crooked on this sloped lot and has always looked sickly.  To show its unhappiness it constantly drops needles and cones to plug the run-off street drain underneath so that when we get significant rainfall, the street floods.  Sarrah only noticed one thing… the Cones!  She loved the scratching hollow noise that they made as they skipped across the blacktop, when I kicked them.  She would excitedly attack, catch and carry the cone of the day along with us (sometimes two at a time).  Eventually she would drop it indiscriminately; some were deposited as little as ten feet away, most others much farther, the furthest made the whole mile plus round trip.  She should receive honorable mention on Arbor Day, for if ten percent of her randomly relocated cones yielded a tree; she planted around four hundred along Marine View Drive. 

Garage Asylum

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Being a “car guy” makes my eyes always shoot toward an open garage door.  With a tinge of voyeurism I look to catch a glimpse of a beauty sleeping under cover, curvaceous antique, sleek vintage hot rod, stripped down racer, badass muscle car, smooth exotic sports car, dangerous motorcycle of any kind, sparkle of chrome or “gearhead” project in the works…  But alas, usually I only get an eyeful of something you don’t want to see, Junk (but I look anyway).  There are occasionally a few buried treasures infinitely waiting under the dust and boxes of life’s souvenirs, but most garages sadly are simply full of stuff, piled high with things that people lazily save.  Although a few garages are actually used for a daily driver, the household workhorse vehicle, many have become storage units.  Some garages are methodically organized dens dedicated to other passions like woodworking, music, gaming, or even turned into pseudo pubs and tiki bars, and a few into gyms.  The worst are converted into living quarters, never to be open again.  The best are an Asylum, from the rest of the world.

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Perspective

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Aside from the Ocean, the obvious main ingredient of this beach is Sand.  Unlike the mostly barnacle covered rocky beaches of the Puget Sound, near home, the Long Beach Peninsula is sandy, miles… of fine tan colored sand.  Depending on the tide there is about twenty to one hundred yards of beach from the edge of the grass-covered dunes to the changing ocean line.  Here the ocean licks the sand, packing it into a high-speed surface, making for a smooth run near the edge.  Or where as Sarrah preferred it, sand piled loosely by the wind, storms and high tides up against the dunes where the grass grows and waves like wheat fields; catching the blowing sand into thick, fluffy unstable drifts for jumping and plowing through.

Sand is magical; it brings out playfulness in a dog, youth in the old and delight in a kid.  Sand does not care how careful you are, it will get into everything.  These little bits of ancient rock ground in the waves, spread by the wind, over time will get between your toes and everywhere else.  Sarrah loved it!  She did her part to share it.  It seemed no matter how well I wiped her feet, she somehow smuggled some in.

Autumn Memories…

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Gradually the party is over, so our sun tells us.  The days get shorter… crisp evening air blows in to bite again as it clouds warm breath.  The bees hide, birds start to disappear, squirrels get busier and spiders decorate breezeways.  This time of year is much quieter, as kids have school and other things to do reducing outdoor chaos in turn letting other senses take over.  Slower moments of these shrinking days allow for quiet reflection and observation.  Silently the annual bright green colors burn, rust and fall.

Walking amongst these yards displayed an assortment of new fun, as mine primarily has just lawn, bamboo, shrubs and dwarf trees.  Several of the neighboring properties have huge leaf dropping trees.  These giants of Maple, Oak and others drop their debris into piles on the lawns, sidewalks and streets.  Sarrah delighted in the dry windswept gatherings of these leaves.  She dove into piles and rustled them back into the wind.  The crunch and flight of the red, orange, yellow and brown crackling confetti appealed to her sense of mischief and play.  The little kook made me laugh, every time.  The smells of autumn change as well.  While outside you notice chimneys, awakening to smoke.  These puffy grey and white plumes linger and scent the air.  Sarrah gave Alder smoke a deeper sniff, she must have liked it.

Thanks to Sarrah my view on autumn changed toward a greater appreciation for this time of our year, instead of viewing it as the end of summer, enjoying this slower paced colorful season for its own unique moments.

Sharing Gifts with Sarrah

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Cover copy

As if quietly nudged, the desire came to preserve what I can recall from the life of Sarrah, the cute little spotted dog that invaded, influenced and ultimately improved my life.

A few days ago my work took me out to look at a house in Belfair near the Hood Canal, then to another at the north end of Bainbridge Island.  On this long drive I was painfully missing my road trip partner and thinking about how much she would’ve delighted in the adventures of that day.  Inevitably she’d have spotted a park, given me “the look” in my rear view mirror, started to use one or more of her many whines, growls, barks or howls from her large vocal repertoire (she reserved snorts for the rare occasion when there wasn’t enough time to stop) and we would have embarked on another new earthen gift, which busy people drive right on by.  Around noon I stopped at Fay Bainbridge State Park to enjoy a sun break, walk around the grounds and along the beach with the spirit of my dog.  Walking amongst the drift logs on a trail from the grassy area to the beach brought back flashes of choices that Sarrah would’ve made, from youthfully bounding over obstacles to maturely-taken steps of avoidance.  Reflections of her dancing with the waterline, inhaling everything and even pawing at decay – played though my mind.  But the solitude of this walk on the opposite side of our lobe of the Puget Sound was quieter, colder and lonelier than my memories.

On this day, March Eighth Two Thousand Eleven, while returning on a ferry I decided to write my story about Sarrah recalling and reflecting on our intertwined lives. . I chose a strong craft beer and a hard seat in an empty section. Between sips and glances at passing scenery; words spilled onto my graph paper.  Surprisingly, this literary epiphany instantly made me feel a little better.  Whether it’s ever finished or shared with anyone remains to be seen and completely irrelevant to me, at least at this time.

Could this form of expression be a sort of therapy?

For me?

Or, will it push me over an edge?

I recall hearing a theory that a portion of grief is an unconscious fear or dread of losing one’s memory(s) associated with what was lost.  Perhaps grief forces the brain to focus on and emblazon cherished memories in order to strengthen them against the inevitable erosion of time.  Wouldn’t it be sweet if the greater purpose of trudging through this dank pile of emotions was actually beneficial?

Like most people in midlife, this is not my first beating from the monster we simply call “Loss”.  A couple of years ago I heard the actor Brad Pitt (in an interview pertaining to his efforts in rebuilding New Orleans following the hurricane Katrina) recall an old saying “The Greater the Love, the Greater the Loss.”  I don’t recall the specifics of what he was referring to, but I can still hear him saying these words and feel their weight.  Our world is full of tragedy and horrific loss, much more than we can imagine, until it pointedly affects us personally.  Though my current experience pales to many, to me it serves no purpose to neither compare nor compete (with others or within ourselves) on these differing events.  Each of us are affected by many different living beings and in turn, by their matters of mortality.

I think about Sarrah often, throughout each day.  And don’t wish to feel worse because of my feelings nor concern others who might fear that “I can’t let go” or “Move on” from my grieving.  Some may be worried that I might replace my lost companionship by seeking refuge within the wilder side of life and keeping a bottle nearby as I did in my early twenties while dealing with the young relationship of my daughter, as it withered before it took root.  Like plants, some relationships can Miraculously come back to life if one is very lucky and stubborn enough to feed and water occasionally.

Or that I will delve into another endless labyrinth of excessive work to fill my void, as I did in my late twenties after my brief marriage disintegrated.  The lyric from my favorite song by The Eagles “Desperado” comes to mind “….Don’tcha draw the Queen of Diamonds boy, she’ll beat you if she’s able…”

A seemingly hidden gift out of this immeasurable loss appears to be the unveiling of a new series of coping tools, unused in this way, by me, prior to now.  A yellowed old fat dictionary, relic tape-recorder, worn mechanical pencil, new smooth flowing pens and cool computer keys will be my companions as I wade thru and attempt to let this out.  It seems that a special dog can teach an old boy, a new trick.

Like before… I will work hard through the pain and hoist a few glasses to celebrate the survival of yet another day, but plan to lean most heavily on these writing instruments for balance.  Hopefully crafting something stronger than time and worthy of pride.

As feelings flow and memories surface I’ll attempt to capture them by starting with “Brain Droppings” on paper.  Over time sweep them into piles like bits of sea glass and arrange them into sentences while watching them mosaic…into paragraphs.  Eventually shuffling paragraphs into chapters sprinkled with a few treasured pictures, creating a record of Sarrah’s life with me.  My main purpose of collecting these moments on paper, is to preserve some of my many fond (and a few less than wonderful) memories of her for solace, as I try to move forward in my life without her, here.  Maybe I can repair myself through gradually wrapping the shards of my fractured heart back together, in layers of weathered paper softened by tears and covered with words from reflections of brighter days.

Perhaps I am grappling with a bout of depression, but I have a level of peace with this probability knowing that Sarrah deserved a person who would struggle in a world without her.  If nothing else, spending time with this self-imposed writing assignment gives me an excuse to let my mind wander in the past, while trying to stumble along in a fog as I seek a path into my future.

Lately, people often ask “Are you going to get another dog?” and I struggle with this issue each time I hear it.  Initially I wanted to strangle people who asked me that, especially while Sarrah was still alive, failing… but alive.  Now, each time it’s just another Punch to a wound that won’t seem to heal.

For many reasons I make myself walk on our old usual route, most days.  The obvious motivation for me getting outside and walking is a feeble attempt to retain some fitness, mental and physical.  After all, if one doesn’t over think it, walking is good.

As the seasons change I encounter more “fair weather” people out walking who’ve noticed that I’m alone and many ask “Where’s your dog?”  These questions feel like slow Scratches to my wound, some deep, others faint depending on their chosen words and reaction(s) to how I answer their painful question.

One warm day an elderly lady, who lives about a half-mile to the south, asked the dreaded question.

She replied, “Oh I am so sorry” and then proceeded to tell me how she’d recently lost her poodle.

“He was ready, he just stopped eating.”

As I started walking away after saying, “Sorry.”

She surmised, “Maybe people should learn from their pets.”

I half-smiled and replied, “Perhaps.”

I know that all of these questions come from good people with simple curiosity, but interestingly it also makes me wonder how often a few quick words out of my mouth have inadvertently touched others, with a sore note.  Perhaps we’d all benefit from more pause-induced thought and fewer spoken words.

Despite the overwhelming crushing feelings of late, I would never go back and undo having her in my life.  So these are logical questions, but logic and feelings…collide.  I do not know, can’t even think about, having another dog in my life at this time.

Dean Koontz, in his book “A big little life” wrote that “It took he and his wife eight month’s to ‘have the courage’ to get another dog.”  In my case it’s probably strength, or lack of.  Another emotion could be fear that a new dog would chase away my fond memories and the spirit of Sarrah.  Regardless of whether or not another dog ever enters into what’s left of my life, this story is about the wonderful spirit that lived in a little dog and the gifts of life that she shared with me and others.

 

On Sarrah’s last morning here, I freed her from the collar that she loathed and placed it on the head of my cement gargoyle that resides on a cedar stump in the backyard.  It remains an evolving contrast – a shining chrome chain becoming a halo of rust.

Gargoyle