slow

I love older dogs more than I should.

Imagine my pure delight for the next week as I care for a blind and partially deaf bulldog named George.

Built like a tank, George moves with purpose from his inside bed to his food bowl, to his outside bed. He is like an elderly person in a home, minus the flight risk. Throw in a bone and a cup of carrots each afternoon, and call it a day. The owner told me that bulldogs usually don’t live past 8. George is 11.

The Wi-Fi network at George’s house is called “slow”. All lowercase letters. I have been thinking about this a lot. Is it slow as a reminder to move carefully, non-rushed, with more presence? Or slow because the actual connection is shoddy? Stay tuned.

Upon arrival, I was warmly greeted by George’s mom and dad. On their wall hung the most gorgeous black and white photo of their family. Mama to the left, Daddy to the right, two beautiful, beaming girls held snug in between. One daughter with her hands crossed politely in front of her. The other, taller daughter, arms open on either side - holding her family together.

This struck me - her contagion, her smile, her OPEN OPEN OPEN spirit.

“God, your family is just stunning! How old are your daughters?” I asked.

She answered without pause, “Our youngest daughter is 21. And our oldest daughter passed away 5 years ago at 18.”

The words hung in the air between us like a silent wind tunnel. I took inventory of the dad, mulling around in the kitchen, preoccupied with packing almonds into a Ziploc baggie. How many times must they have to explain this fucking catastrophe to strangers? Mom leading with her daughter who is alive. Of course, lead with the living child. This makes it easier(?!) for both parties (?!)

W.T.A.F.? (God, I am speaking DIRECTLY to you.)

I whispered some incompetent sentiment like, “I’m so sorry.” Then she showed me George’s food bowl.

Come to find out, OPEN OPEN OPEN ARMED daughter’s name and birthday is part of their Wi-Fi password. I mentioned this to George’s Mom - I said her daughter’s name out loud before their Uber arrived. Before they hopped on a plane across the country. I didn’t pretend otherwise, like she wasn’t here just a minute ago.

Solidarity.

George

Their daughter’s passing began to sink in the next morning. Grief will do that - sneak in - slow, slow, slow.

I sat on their porch crying my fucking eyeballs out. How is this mama’s daughter gone, while my children are HERE? It was a salty snot sandwich, and George snored while snoozing in the sun next to me, completely unaware of my breakdown. I called Tom and told him how I wanted to throat punch God. He listened without comment. He is a good man.

We leave for Ireland in two weeks, and I have refused to check a bag. Partly because I am cheap, mostly as a science experiment. This small act of rebellion will force me to pare down. To discern what is necessary for five weeks of travel on a different continent.

What do I really need, anyway? An adaptor, keychain Jesus, and enough toothpaste to cross the Atlantic. I have intentionally decided to carry less - and remain OPEN OPEN OPEN to the lessons that await. That may look like buying toothpaste when I arrive.

I have been sending my family regular updates on George. He’s part of our tribe now. When approaching him, I do so from the front, keeping one palm wide open two inches from his adorable scrunched-up face, and the other gently touching his body. I move cautiously so as not to startle him, always keeping one hand on his back - sort of like a masseuse during a massage.

And I think I am beginning to understand why the Wi-Fi network is called “slow”.

Keychain Jesus is ready for Transatlantic travel.

Open

Slow

Listen

Love

Repeat as often as necessary.