CFC Blog #127: The Spiritual Art of Reflection

Sometimes I wonder if our dog Sam had any idea just how deeply she touched all of our lives. She walked with me, literally and emotionally, through so many of my joys and sorrows in life- most recently the loss of my father. She gifted me the quiet, loving, supportive, non-judgmental company I needed to feel safe in my grief in solitude with nature, when being alone was too hard and being with another human was too much to manage. I love how Amanda makes the connection here about a place deep within us that perhaps our spirit resides and it’s that place, too, that we carry all the Ones we love. 

- Jaime

Photo taken in Acadia National Park in Maine.

The Spiritual Art of Reflection 

A dear friend of mine named Bill recently wrote to me,"It's funny how grief, in its own way, is a particular and paradoxical blessing--we grieve because we love, and the love is how we are at one with another person (including, as we know, our dog friends), and the depth and the strength of the love is something that time and change can't take from us, and so the grief is a sign of the ongoingness of the love, and since the love is what binds us to our Others, then we can be assured that in loving, those Others live with us always, however far away they seem sometimes.”

After reading these words of consolation, I was reminded how written words are such a beautiful art, and that writing is a gift which can be opened time and time again, especially when those times get rough. Especially when having to say goodbye to those who touch the heart and mark the soul. 

Writing has always helped me in a lot of ways. Upon reflecting back over the years and perusing through old word documents on my computer, I realize I did the most reflective writing my freshman year of both high school and college. Those years also happened to be the most challenging two for me. So there were many feelings I know I was struggling to try to navigate through. I think those two years also held the most major changes I experienced in my whole life. And writing helped me to receive, acknowledge, and accept changes that I so didn’t want.

For years I have been particularly scared of change. Right when the path of my life branches into another direction, I immediately want to resist. And I seem to become tangled in my inner thoughts of reflection about the trail I had been traveling on before.. and wish to turn around and stay on. 

But as I get older, and face many more new experiences and changes and periods of adversity, I become ever more conscious of the notion that, if I continue reliving the past, not embarking in new directions, then the world becomes bland - the story of my life remains the same; the life painting which becomes a bit more varnished each day holds the same few colors and patterns. 

So three weeks ago, I experienced another drastic change. I had to say goodbye to a lifelong pal of mine. We had to put my 16-year old beautiful mutt to sleep. I hadn’t felt the symptoms of a broken heart in years - the physical aching and pressure in the chest; the sorrow that distorts my vision of seeing any joy at my fingertips. 

I went to the farmer’s market a few days after the dreadful day when I got back to college in Florida. That evening, I remember I knelt down to pet just about every dog I saw, and bluntly told each owner about my recent tragedy of losing my own quiet friend I had since age six. As I got into the car later that evening with my boyfriend and dense bags of produce, I felt another heavy weight fill my chest. And tears freely streamed down once more. And I said to him how he must think I’m crazy for still being so emotional after a week… for being dramatic and ridiculous and holding on too tight to something that was no longer physically there. For crying out of no where, and barely being able to articulate my aching thoughts and feelings aloud. 

Of course that extensive thought didn’t cross his brain, but it crossed mine. And I ridiculed my own grieving and the voices bouncing around, trapped by the boundaries within my own mind. 

I have always told myself that I’m not a religious nor spiritual person. But dealing with changes in my life, and writing, have altered that belief. Changes, especially those that call for grieving, have recently made me realize that I actually do have a strong sense of spirituality. 

Spirituality is defined as "having to do with the spirit, not as in ghosts, but as in the essence of being human — your soul or your inner life.” 

I see my spirituality simply in the art of my reflecting.  

I notice that I perhaps overly reflect on seemingly every change, every incident that takes place in my life, both major and minor. I often do this reflecting quietly in my head, getting caught up in my mind and regretfully forgetting what’s even going on around me… but other times, when I really feel a connection to the story of my life and what’s being painted before me, I sit down to physically write about the canvas I see, thus freeing the thoughts once confined in my head. 

And often this writing spills out a lot of grieving. And some tears. But then, similar to now, I feel just slightly revived after. Maybe because I feel a connection to a greater depth within myself that I'm actually grateful exists. Or maybe because within that depth, I know and feel the ones I’ve lost can still be held closely.

This piece is dedicated to my good friend Bill Shullenberger - a friendship that was made at a wonderful state park near my house in New York when my dog Sam and his dog Jewel butt noses with one another one warm summer evening. He grew to know Sam well, and knew just how much I loved her and being in that happy place out in nature. 

Thank you Bill for helping me through this difficult time, and for supporting me in viewing myself and the world a bit differently - more gently, and with greater faith and inspiration.