Packets of Loss

The human heart has many chambers, one of them in particular devoted to the safe keeping of the packets of loss we seem to acquire over the course of a life. Losses large and small, some long lasting, some slightly more fleeting, felt sharply or deeply, cutting, wincing, throbbing losses of all types. The experience of moving from a childhood home gets cataloged and filed there, as does the end of one's first love relationship, and divorces, deaths of grandparents, parents, friends, being fired, losing a pet. When harm comes to those whom you love, even when they are not mortally wounded, that counts as loss, as well. Loss of your innocence, loss of your trust in the goodness of the world, they get placed in little packets and tucked into that special chamber, too.

When the losses are spread out over manageable lengths of time, and when the gravity of each is perhaps measured on a different scale, then it is much easier for the soul to organize them all, place the packets into the appropriate color coded folders - black for the gravest of losses such as the death of a close family member, perhaps a medium gray for something lesser like moving to a new city of one's own accord, and so on. Colors of indigo for those losses you sensed coming and could prepare for, even just a little bit. Perhaps over time, and with proper storage and care, the little file folders develop a sweet and beautiful luster, and as you remove them from the chamber in your heart and hold them to the light, you see that instead of a black folder, the packet now shines and gleams with bits of diamonds and pearls, as the good, sweet memories have risen to the surface to be more fully seen and appreciated. The grey packets gleam like silver, pewter and platinum as you recognize the value of the experience to your soul's growth. And those indigo packets, the ones containing the losses you were able to prepare for, sparkle like sapphires, like a night sky pricked by the light of countless stars, glow like twilight, that most precious of moments. The packets themselves are beautiful and precious, and the memories they hold are even more so.

But when the losses come to quickly and too heavily, the soul cannot keep up with the organization system it has created. Packets get tucked together willy nilly, set upon shelves, stacked flat on the floor of the chamber, propped against the walls, obscuring the windows and blocking the doors. Just like that overstuffed hall closet, there comes a time when opening the door, even just a crack, results in an avalanche. All the losses, even those already burnished by time, come tumbling out, piling at your feet, tripping you, making you fall, and ultimately burying you under a mountain of black, grey and indigo file folders.

That's where I am today. Just buried under the weight of the many losses we have experienced in the last few years, all of them made fresh and new by the events of the past several weeks.

Two and a half years ago, my then-15 year old daughter was sexually assaulted by two men at a house party. Subsequently, the two county attorneys involved would not prosecute. We waged battle for two full years trying to achieve justice for my girl, and ultimately justice never was delivered through the judicial system, but rather through the media. This culminated in a NBC News Dateline story on our experiences that ran a few weeks ago. (The transcript appears here .)The airing of the piece, while an important part of the closure and healing for our family, also reopened all the wounds suffered throughout that time period.

On August 27, 2005, my best friend Dawn was shot in the back by her husband. She was murdered in her own home while three of her five children slept in their beds. The murder trial took place in early April, and thankfully ended with a jury conviction of deliberate homicide and use of a firearm to commit a crime. Sentencing was yesterday, May 11. I testified, along with the defendant's eldest daughter, two of his previous wives, and other family members. Lawrence Roedel was senteced to 80 years in state prison plus another 10 for the firearms charge. He will eligible for parole in about 40 years. He is 67 years old, and not in good health. He will die in prison, and for that we are imminently grateful to the justice system, the very same one, manned by the very same people, who so miserably failed my daughter. The sentencing hearing reopened all the grief and rage we feel for Dawn's murder as well as the heartbreak and disappointment and grief and rage over the way my daughter's case was mishandled, and the cruel manner in which we were all treated.

Also yesterday, shortly after 5:30 pm, our youngest cat died. The Muffin Man was just three years old, a healthy indoors-only little man. The sweetest and most lovingly devoted creature I have ever known. He was fine on Wednesday, and started acting sick Wednesday evening. Around 4 am on Thursday morning I heard him throwing up. At 7 am he was really in a bad way. By 10 he was at the vet's and they were trying to figure out what was wrong. IVs, glucose, antibiotics were administered - was it an infection? A diabetic reaction? Liver failure? A brain tumor? Poisoning? Around 3:30, as the sentence was being read, he suffered a seizure. Valium was administered. He went through another series of seizures while we were at the vet's office after court, shortly before 4 pm. And he died shortly after that. I love all my animals - the other two cats whom I hand raised from the time they were four days old, our two dogs. I have always felt them to be precious souls, sweet children entrusted to my care. They are a source of comfort and joy to me, and even my husband and I spend the day relaying stories about what Piper did, or how cute Twink was while sleeping earlier, or how clever Suzz is, or can you believe the way Squeak stands on his hind legs like a little dog when he wants to be picked up. And with the Muffin Man, it was always about how incredibly devoted he was to me. He followed me from room to room, sat on my lap while I knit or read or watched TV or worked on the computer. He was the only cat I have ever known to sleep the entire night through, and he was always polite and never bothersome or pushy. Not even once did he bite or scratch us, not even at the vet or when my husband would trim his claws or bathe him. And this sweetest of souls was taken suddenly, without warning and so very much before his time. Certainly far before I even could have imagined him being taken.

We are bereft, grieving not only for the loss of pet, which certainly would be enough, but also for the many losses we have experienced, the many heartbreaks and hardships of the soul we have suffered in recent times. Certainly we are not the first or only people to suffer in this way, and so certainly others suffer far more greatly than I. This I know, and I understand and believe with my heart. And still, I am so disappointed in God right now, although I know I am not alone. Was the death of my kitty punishment for something I have done? I try so very hard to walk gently and carry compassion for the entire world in my heart. I speak the truth and take very seriously the matter of Right Speech according to the Eightfold Path - don't speak untruths, don't speak harm even if true about sums it up. We carefully remove wayward spiders and mice from our home and reinstall them into the outdoors, and I even share my garden with a rabbit and at least one vole, who last year ate the inside of every single beet I had planted, leaving nothing but red papery shells in the ground. My husband and I work so very hard, not only at our two galleries, but also cleaning two commercial building complexes seven days a week. We do these things cheerfully and with happy hearts, for through our galleries we are able to support the dreams of more than 150 artists and craftspeople in this country, people making beautiful and functional things with their own two hands. Such a rarity anymore. I clean toilets and mop floors with my husband, because to do so provides a pleasant environment for the people living and working in the buildings, and also for the many thousands of nice visitors who come through our little burg each year. To meet a person's physical need for food, clothing, shelter, and sometimes even more importantly a clean bathroom, is a sacred service indeed. And still I am subject to what sometimes feels to be insurmountable pain, in spite of my good acts and thoughts and moment by moments prayers of thanks and gratitude for all the good and abundance that exists in this world. My biggest and most fervent prayer is always that those suffering might find peace and contentment and safety and happiness.

And so, today, I wonder where my own peace might be. The Muffin Man was a sweet and gentle soul, and really liked things to be the same - the same schedule, the same food, the same routines. I want things to be the same, too. And they can't be.

And that makes me feel despair.