I was alone on the wrong side of the road, driving the west coast of the South Island of New Zealand, and Laci was probably living her last day.
There was just so much. The experience was overwhelming — and so was my grief. I tried to release the feelings that don’t help, the fear and the guilt and regret, but there was no way I was letting go of my pain. My grief is holy, as is the unspeakable beauty of this land, the freedom and joy that fill my life. But I was struggling to hold it all at once.
So I breathed more. Deeper, longer, more purposeful. I gathered in the sheer bliss of the day. I breathed deep to soothe the ache of my sorrow. I felt my breath fill the space around and between the stones of grief and pain. I wanted my joy, and I wanted my sadness, and I held them both.
I stopped at a seal colony on a wild and rocky coast. I thought I’d missed them — they blended right into the rocks — but right below me was a mother nursing her young one.
I marveled at the intricate formations at Pancake Rocks. Then I pulled into Rata Lodge, a sweet house with a communal lounge and kitchen and three individual bedrooms. I shared my heartache with my hosts. They had lost their dog a week and a half ago, and their eyes still filled with tears when they talked about her. Holy tears.
I made a playlist of crying songs to weep myself clean.
It felt like wholeness. Like sovereignty and courage. It felt like success. I’m brave and loyal enough to hold tight to mourning my dog, and strong and self-loving enough to cling to my joy, to embrace the wonder of this journey....
With love from wherever I am,
Lauren
