Spring From the Eyes and Nose of a Puppy

I turned 60 this January and aside from the few minutes it takes to get out of bed to feel fully functional each morning, I consider myself healthy. However, with the shutdown/lockdown that we continue to face, I find myself feeling a bit less healthy. I want to rip off my mask; I want to jump on the direct flight from Raleigh-Durham to Vegas like Carl and I used to (without masks); I want to go back to church and stand with the congregation and sing----even if my voice is off-key. I want to have friends in my home and make dinners with pasta and lots of cheese.

I stop from my whining because someone is at my knee. It's my seven-month-old puppy, Bella, who has brought a squirrel toy to me and wants me to play. I take the toy and toss it across the hardwood. She chases after it, stops, grabs it with her mouth, and races back to me. We go outside into the sunshine where I toss a tennis ball and she follows its path along the driveway, picks it up, and returns to me. She drops the ball and jumps into a pile of raked leaves we keep for her to play in (yes, it's spring and yes, we still have fallen leaves from the 40+ trees on our property). She looks at me with her beautiful expressive face and then makes a bed inside the pile.

When the first iris bloomed---the first iris Bella had even seen----she introduced herself to it. She was curious and cautious. Her approach to the iris made me think about trying new things, about wonder, about curiosity. I felt that perhaps in a season of dismal (not only the continuing pandemic but the excessive government spending, our southern border crisis, etc. and etc.) it was time to take a break from the daily news and see the world through the eyes of a puppy.

I walk around the yard and take photos of the flowers, and then take a few of one of our neighbor's trees with the large pink blooms. I breathe in the fresh warm air and note the blue in the sky. Bella skips over to me and I watch her nose sniff scents that I cannot smell. "It’s been estimated that dogs can smell anywhere from 1,000 to 10,000 times better than people," writes Lynn Buzhardt, DVM. "Dogs also have a great homing instinct that depends on their ability to smell. Since dogs move their nostrils independently, they can determine the direction of an odor and use their sense of smell like a compass."

I sit on the back stoop with Bella, together--she with her compass-nose twitching in the air, and me with my camera----focused on the magnitude of creation supplied by our Creator. All of this new life for us to take in. Every year I have enjoyed the season through color, touch, smell, and that sense that causes me to say: With so much beauty, how can life not be good?

As Bella snifs my hand and rests against me, my prayer is: Don't let me be so bogged down by the way things are (things that I cannot control) that I miss the wonder and beauty of my 60th spring.

Writing in Spring

Spring is the time to sit down and write!  Or take a walk and see what you come up with.  Let the warmer weather and the beauty around you open a world of writing. 

I like to take my pen and notebook to a park and see what transpires. While seated near a stream, I've met talking turtles and a team of dancing flowers.  (They were included in one of my books.) After writing for a bit, I get up and walk. Walking generates a host of ideas, dialog, and emotions. These can be used in your writing.

Spend fifteen minutes a day writing whatever comes to mind.  You'll be surprised at what those moments with your thoughts can produce. Writing for a specific amount of time each day is an opportunity to get some problems solved (the more you write, the better chance you'll have at coming up with solutions). I call it cheap therapy.  It's also a great way to boost your word count for your current work-in-progress.

Let this spring cultivate your writer's heart!

Why Spring Can Make You Sad

Spring. Buds, blooms, color. Thick coats of yellow stuff. Pollen. It's invaded, giving me a headache right between my eyes. Tears come at unexpected intervals.

But I love the flowers and warm weather, so it has to be more than allergies that make me sad this spring. Spring comes in full force in North Carolina. It starts with daffodils at the end of February, and by April, central North Carolina is a decorated beauty queen.

Yet sometimes that can be too much color at once. It's not just color, it's other things. Oh, it's always other things when it comes to the death of a child.

It's Easter----that special holy day that sometimes falls at the end of April instead of in March (March is when nature is just easing away from winter and not as colorful). But when Easter falls on April 20th as it did this year, well, that's almost too much to take in.





The dogwood and azaleas show off their gorgeous flowers and my mind sails back to memories of laughter, eggs, and a three-year-old boy with a mouth covered in chocolate and hands equally as stained. It's Easter 1996. Who knew it would be his last Easter egg hunt, his last Easter to ask about angels pushing away the stone at Jesus' tomb?

Grief is part of my life now. Grief became a resident when Daniel took his last little breath. I hate it when people think you can get over it. Grief follows me everywhere now, although not as obvious as it once was. Sometimes it wears a camouflage cloak or hides in the shadows. I think it's been tamed, like a domesticated kitten. But when spring is at its finest and the smell of wisteria is in the air, grief lurks like a wild animal. It claws at my heart strings. It makes me have to go out and buy another box of tissues.

We didn't know he had cancer during our festivities that Easter of '96. It was a month later when the swelling in the left side of his neck would have a name other than, "Maybe allergies."

We were naive and innocent back then. We didn't have a clue that spring could be just as harsh on the heart as winter.

Now I know that spring, in spite of all her stylish beauty, can fill a mind with ugly reminders of a cancer diagnosis. How I wish that cancer had not knocked on our door that spring.

I like to remember Daniel at age four as an energetic kid. I like to look at photos of him with hair and smiles. But the truth is, cancer stole all that at the end. Daniel was a bloated child, unconscious, comatose, and covered in bed sores when I held him last.

Some memories I have to swing at, push them away.

Some memories are more sad than sad.

This Easter I cried. I sat in church as the choir sang and something happened. For the first time since Daniel's death, I felt comforted by those words people are always trying to comfort you with: "You'll see him again in Heaven." All of the times before when people had tried to comfort me with, "You'll see him again," I struggled because I wanted him here with me now. I also believed that my life with him as my little son had ended; there would be no more of me being his mother, watching him grow, teaching him how to read or how to ride a bike. Did people not realize that? Were people too ignorant to grasp that family reunions where families will recreate the life from earth in the heavenly places isn't going to be?

But there in that pew, I thought, it won't be a repeat of earth, but at least I will see him. And Daniel and I will be two people among billions of others, all free from pain and tears, all in new bodies.

So I sat in the pew trying not to let the tears soak my dress, thinking about meeting Daniel as an older person, as an equal. In Heaven. And the choir sang that Jesus is risen.

It's a mixed up life we bereaved parents live. It's joy at having had our child, but it's a big ball of sorrow right in the gut at losing him. Joy and sorrow. And grief. You have to know that grief is not a bad thing. It is an inevitable resident after the death of a child. And being sad at spring doesn't mean you can't enjoy an iris blooming in your garden. It just makes you more in tune with how life works and how love is.

And sometimes you have to take a break from all the color.

~ Alice J. Wisler 2014 ~ For more about living through grief and loss and love, read Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache..