I always marvel at Cedar’s ready-to-go-ness each morning, and her incredible intuition about my emotions. This morning, again, she found me in bed and backed into me with a full on back-spoon, along with a satisfying little growl. 

It’s been a summer of “celebrations of life.” I risk writing about them here in a dog blog because each deserves its own space for tribute and celebration, and yes, mourning. But there’s something about pet ownership, and maybe a bit about this pet’s ownership, that brings them together for me. I think about this in disordered ways, like the confused blooming and dying and growing and molding I’m seeing each day on the Big Tree Trail. 

First there was a beautiful celebration of Chris, an absolutely dedicated father who’s daughter created a slide set of heart-rending tenderness, set in part to the tune, “Always Be Humble and Kind.” This man’s best friend gave a rousing ad-libbed speech about how Chris had the ability to “Show ‘em” rather than talk about it, when it came to giving love to others. Somehow, tragically, the humble and kind father lost his ability to keep showing them. (Brain chemistry can be so resilient and then so fragile.) I’m thinking about his family’s love in marking his passing with celebration, and how that love will endure and guide what they show to themselves and their loved ones.

Then there was Dave, my former boss, who in all honesty wasn’t really considered to be great at his job. We gathered on a sunny day at a beachside shelter, told funny stories about versions of his innocent love for the water and boating. To a person, the testimony showed that he was fantastic at his job, when you realized he interpreted his highest duty as showing kindness. 

There was Cayman, 17, who died doing his favorite thing in the world—taking risks and jumping off high things. His sister revealed that he died the way he wanted to, that he hadn’t really believed he’d be old some day. His brother told the story of his determination to find the strength of his own will. One day when they were boat cruising, young Cayman walked right off a dock in his pajamas. When they fished him out, he revealed he was trying to find out how straight he could walk with his eyes closed, and how long he could do it. 

Finally, last night, I watched the Mass and slide show from the celebration of life for Marge, Katrina’s mom. (Why I wasn’t there is its own little tragedy.) The priest in his homily ran with Katrina’s reference to Marge’s love for St. Francis, saying words attributed to him, and giving tribute to the way Marge lived her life and made others feel. “Preach the gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words.”  In Katrina’s take, Marge always gave everyone in her home a “felt sense of belonging.” When you act like that, the priest remarked, “People notice. They take heart.”

And so these celebrations of life allow us to “take heart” —to learn from the examples of others’ hearts. I’m learning this summer that I have a long way to go to “show ‘em” and that I too often land in St. Francis’ “if necessary” end of the spectrum, needing words to fill in the gaps.

One reason posts have been so sparse this summer, is that I had the rare treat of traveling the West of Ireland for seven days with Katie. I thought about her mom, who I would meet just a few days after my last trip to Ireland, the whole time Katie and I traveled together. We still don’t have a convincing cause of death for Ali other than “enlarged heart”; I think it’s entirely feasible she died of broken heart syndrome. In other words, she loved too hard. Maybe she broke herself on St. Francis’ altar. Maybe she kept her eyes closed like Cayman, or lost her heart’s resilience after trying just a little too hard to do it all. 

I don’t necessarily believe in unconditional love for loves beyond family love. Our relationships require conditions to contain them and to help us sustain ourselves and our love.  We can love too little or break ourselves by loving too hard, or at the wrong times. But I do believe in kindness. 

In both kindness and unconditional love, in heartbreak and in a daily celebration of life, I’m thankful for my tail-wagging, spooning companion. She helps me take heart every single day.

The Mendenhall Wetlands State Game Refuge is a Juneau gem. Yesterday you wouldn’t have known it’s still springing UP from the weight of glaciers. After crazy rains and big tides, it earned its keep as semi-submerged wet land. Really, the refuge is one of the things that makes living in Juneau — even when the weather turns to shit–aesthetically pleasing. This intertidal oasis squeezed between Egan Drive, Gastineau Channel and Douglas Island is a rich gathering spot for migrating birds, fish, fishers, hunters, kite surfers, kite flyers, voles, meth addicts (so I learned while parking yesterday), crossing bear and deer, 737s, and as of this winter, a new gas station. Ugh.

Anyway, a few steps into yesterday’s slog, I almost turned back. The trail from our access point was non-existent. The muck looked like lava. Before I had time to be sensible, Cedar’s Lab genes kicked in and we were committed. I had as much fun watching her, I think, as she did mucking it up.

Yesterday morning I felt my lungs fill and my shoulders drop as we entered the woods. The day’s urgencies left and I let myself get a little lost in Cedar’s happy trot and whatever “new” the big tree trail had to show us this particular morning. As I relaxed into the walk, I took some solace in the fact that the day of the week has no meaning or value in the forest ecosystem. “It’s not Wednesday in the woods” felt like a consoling observation, and because I’m so witty, maybe even a blog post title.

As I walked on, though, I started thinking a little more about that proposition. Seeing the yellow and the wilt on the Devil’s Club, I mulled on where we are in the seasonal round. Well over half-time for sure. Wednesday, I thought, is the fourth day of week’s seven days…and August isn’t far off from late Wednesday of the year.

Then I started thinking of my own time on earth in these terms. It may not be Wednesday in the woods. It may actually be Thursday.

And luckily, to my knowledge, brown fish can’t. But dang, they can flop. Our girl was a little freaked out by the muscular spasms of our trolling bycatch last night—her first glimpse and smell of halibut.