Make life beautiful: lessons on trust and the gift of gentleness
Weaving stories and life lessons, the difference between giving up and detachment, the beauty of grief and loss, and the extraordinary gift of gentleness
I was watching the season three opening scene of Ted Lasso.
Ted was saying goodbye to his son at the airport.
The distance and time that would separate them would be significant.
A physical ocean.
Timezones.
And yet, I received a distinct feeling about these fictional characters: Their relationship will remain close because of frequent and intentional connection.
(Obviously, this is a projection. The season hasn’t ended yet, so I have no idea what will happen!)
I began to reflect on how the closest relationships have a steady supply of intentional connection.
And then, a META insight was downloaded directly into my system.
If you’ve listened to my podcast episode on contemplation, then you know that “insights” are an indicator of mental contemplation.
And, people often have insights, but mental insights alone do not lead to change.
That’s why we must continue our practice with emotional and physical contemplation to create shifts in our consciousness and bodies.
Back to the insight.
It came through with a zing.
The major male relationships in my life have something in common.
A subtle thread of abandonment that goes beyond physical distance.
The men have all given up in some way.
They’ve given up on true, intimate relationships.
They’ve given up on opening their hearts.
They’ve given up on being present.
They’ve given up on learning and growing.
They’ve given up on responsibility.
They’ve given up on purpose and alignment and integrity.
They’ve given up on me.
They’ve given up on themselves.
Pause with me here for a second as I unpack this insight with you.
I did not sink into an abandonment wound.
I did not claim a spot in the victimhood hall of fame.
I allowed the insight to unfold without judgment so that I could see and feel all of its edges, even the uncomfortable ones.
As I stayed with this original insight, pulling on it like a thread on the sleeve of a sweater, it continued to unravel and offer additional learnings.
The next lesson that came through, a gentle whisper, was this: maybe this is where I learned to give up on myself.
I constantly have ideas that I never bring to fruition.
I initiate and abandon project after project.
I make strong connections with people only to have them dwindle, become distant, and stagnate. (It is a two-way street, yes, but I take responsibility for my part).
Whenever someone else needs something, whether at home or at work, I prioritize their needs over my own.
The self-abandonment and giving up runs deep in the form of patterns like people pleasing, proving my worth, overwork and burnout, codependency, and self-neglect.
The insight continued to unfold.
This is one of the root causes of my lack of self-trust.
I have created and played out patterns of control in my life due to a lack of trust in others, trust in myself, trust in my body, and trust in the rhythms of life.
TRUST is my guide word for 2023.
As a result, I’ve been contemplating all facets of TRUST this year.
This insight (a series of insights, really) was connected directly to the core of my contemplation for 2023.
How can I trust others when they give up on themselves? When they give up on me?
How can I trust myself when I abandon my own needs and desires?
How can I trust that I am worthy when I am never seen or invited in?
How can I trust my body when it feels so unsafe and unfamiliar?
How can I trust in the rhythms of life when I have been separated and disconnected from all that is?
I am edging toward an embodied shift, an epiphany, a merging.
A release of the need to pretend that I am in control.
A refinement where I trust in life, which naturally includes that I trust in myself and others.
A burning away of the old patterns that have kept me closed off, separate, distant, disconnected, shielded, and GIVING UP.
TRUST is calling me into wholeness.
TRUST is calling me into devotion.
TRUST is calling me into detachment.
Detachment is different from giving up.
Detachment is allowing and flowing and trusting what is.
I’m no longer here for attachments, identifications, or expectations.
I’m no longer here for deserving, earning, or proving.
I’m no longer here for not-so-patiently waiting for others to validate my existence, worth, and value.
I am ready and willing.
I am softening to all that is.
That is awakening, after all.
Awakening is a series of softenings.
Knowing that I am enough, I am whole, I am worthy.
I am committed to HOLDING myself through it all.
Gently.
. . .
Last fall when we received a cancer diagnosis for our “firstborn” soul dog Brisco, I received a very clear message from my higher self.
“It is time. Will you finally learn how to take care of yourself…even as you need to take care of someone else?”
After nearly four decades spent practicing self-abandonment and giving up on my own needs, I was presented with a portal of initiation.
The universe does that, you know.
It continually presents us with portals filled with potential.
Doors that open to new versions of ourselves and our reality.
Opportunities for us to learn, alchemize, and expand.
I wish I could tell you that I didn’t give up on myself.
I wish I could tell you that I prioritized my self-care at all times.
I wish I could tell you that I was fully present during this unfolding process of life and death.
I’d love to tell you that I fully succeeded. That I “passed” through the portal.
In many ways, I did.
In many ways, I did not.
I am still walking the path.
The portal I did step through, though, was that of GENTLENESS.
A gift from my beloved dog and soulmate, Brisco.
. . .
May 14, 2014.
My husband (then boyfriend), Josh, and I had just moved into our first grown-up Chicago apartment.
I call it “grown-up” because it had a deck, a small backyard, and the ability to have a DOG.
We had wanted a dog for so many years that when the final box was carried in by the movers, we promptly locked the door behind us and sped our way down to Chicago Animal Care & Control, or “dog jail” as Josh called it.
We had already scoped out the dogs we wanted to see on Facebook, a list that included Brisco.
As we walked through the rows of cages, so many sweet dogs were jumping and barking, vying for our attention, for us to choose them.
When we arrived at Brisco’s cage, he looked pitiful.
Patches of hair missing on his head, ears, legs, and tail.
His spine and ribs jutted out because he was so skinny.
He also looked beautiful.
Reddish, brindled fur.
Funny ears that stuck out sideways.
And those golden eyes.
When he saw us, he quietly pressed the entire length of his body against the door of his kennel, hoping that we would grace him with our attention and some pets.
His kennel card carried endorsements like, “pit bull” and “only dog home” and “experienced owner only”.
We learned that he was on the euthanasia list but some volunteers rallied to save him.
Though we had never had a dog before, let alone a raggedy two-year-old, untrained pit bull, by some stroke of destiny we brought Brisco home with us.
They told us they believed that he was a guard dog for a storefront, left alone most of the time with no human or dog companions.
He had no idea how to be a dog.
He had no manners.
He was “mouthy” (meaning, he didn’t learn how hard to play or bite from when he was a puppy).
He flung his body at every rabbit during our walks (there are a lot of rabbits in Chicago).
So we took him to pit bull school.
We gave him exercise and discipline and snuggles and all of the balls he could fetch.
And after six months, we welcomed another rescue pittie, Zoey, into our family.
Brisco was whipsmart and had no idea about the power of his body.
Underneath all of the assumptions and judgments and fears of others…Brisco was GENTLE to the core.
Yes, he was still a bull in a china shop.
You could never use the word “nimble” to describe Brisco.
But when he met a new person, he leaned his body against their legs.
And when he was surprised on a night walk by a possum, he simply sniffed it.
And when we moved to rural Illinois where Brisco (and Zoey and Teddy, our third dog) had many acres to roam and run on, Brisco met every blade of grass, bee, baby bird, and bunny with curiosity and gentle sniffs.
Despite his bulldozer body and his intense, intimidating appearance, Brisco was a gentle, old soul.
He was so vocal, grumbling and whining for what he wanted, all while wagging his tail.
We often joked that one day Brisco would speak human words, like in Planet of the Apes.
His eyes seemed so full of depth and wisdom.
He gave the softest, tiniest kisses.
When Zoey’s time on earth abruptly ended, we were shocked and devastated.
The core lesson that Zoey imparted was unconditional love.
When we received Brisco’s cancer diagnosis, we had a bit more time to process and grieve.
Through and through, the core lesson that Brisco taught us was gentleness.
The tough-looking, intimidating, strong, bulldozing pit bull with the piercing eyes, tenacious spirit, and demanding voice…was the softest, gentlest friend, soul, and teacher.
After nearly nine beautiful years together, filled with fetch and sunshine and snuggles and yummy food, we spent a final day together and we said goodbye out in the sun, on the grass, laying together, surrounded by flowers.
I cut a bouquet of daffodils from our property and collected some wildflowers.
He gifted us gentle kisses and sniffed the flowers with calm curiosity, in total acceptance of every single moment.
. . .
It wasn’t that I didn’t give up on myself.
I did.
A lot of times.
I went days without showering.
I ate unhealthy food and watched so much tv and used cannabis to numb myself.
But here’s the difference.
I did it all gently.
I consciously chose those things when I needed them, when I couldn’t fully cope, when it was too much to be present to my life.
Not as an escape, but as a resource.
I learned to allow it all.
The “good” and “approved” self-care behaviors, like salt baths and dancing, along with the “bad” and “unhealthy” coping behaviors, like numbing out on stupid television and eating my weight in pasta.
I witnessed myself, making these choices because I needed them.
It was a way to be gentle with myself.
And so, now, I see how I have softened through this process.
I have softened into the pain and the struggle.
I have found the honor in it.
And I have discovered the gift of softening, allowing, and being gentle with myself and with others.
Instead of giving up, I’m giving in.
. . .
About a month before we said goodbye to Brisco, I went on a mushroom journey to process the grief and momentous initiation I was in navigating.
I shared a moment with Brisco that I will never forget.
I experienced our souls interacting in the quantum realm and in the 3-D simultaneously.
Overlapping experiences of complete union and undying wholeness collided with moments of sobbing, laughing, and nuzzling our faces together on the material plane.
I understood that we could never be apart and that our time together was infinite, our energies were forever intertwined.
I experienced pure presence as my soul self, while also grappling with the imminent finality of our physical time together.
A moment came when I began to apologize to Brisco for all of the painful, challenging times in his life.
I apologized for the endless vet visits, wearing the cone of shame, his arthritis, the cancer treatments…and for the two years of his life before we adopted him…who knows what he went through.
As I apologized, I sobbed.
And as I sobbed, Brisco gave me soft kisses and nibbled on the tip of my nose with his tiny front teeth.
And then I received a knowing from Brisco:
There is no need to apologize.
All of it was beautiful.
Every moment.
The happy and the sad.
The joyful and the painful.
Every moment was beautiful.
All of it.
. . .
I bought a wagon to help lug around Brisco’s 90-pound body so that he could get some fresh air and sunshine despite not being able to go on walks anymore.
He rode in the wagon exactly three times.
The wagon accompanied us on his last day and he rode in it after we said our final goodbyes.
After they returned the wagon to us, I noticed something that I had not seen up until that very moment.
Under the logo on the side of the wagon, there was a phrase.
It said:
Make life beautiful.
We will.