Tag: grief

Agate Magic

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NOTE: There is nothing scientifically provable in this story. But it is still 100% true.

This weekend my kids and I had the occasion to visit my dad’s favorite beach. We were visiting one of my dad’s favorite people, Patsi. It was Patsi who whispered in my ear at my dad’s service 12 years ago that I was his favorite child. And Patsi and I were walking on the beach with my dad’s favorite grandchildren he’s never met.

You can see where I’m going with this. It was a powerful place.

As we walked on the beach, we were hunting for agates. I’ll insert the dictionary definition here because the “you know them when you see them” approach doesn’t work well with writing. Miriam-Webster describes these rocks as: “a fine-grained variegated chalcedony having its colors arranged in stripes, blended in clouds, or showing mosslike forms.”

picture of an agate

We walked 40 minutes at beachcombing pace to get to my dad’s favorite beach. As we strolled, Patsi and I told the kids about Dad’s uncanny ability to find agates. My dad had a lazy eye so he essentially could only see out of one eye. This meant he lacked depth perception (in the visual sense, not the spiritual sense). But somehow he developed the timing to hit the tennis ball, the coordination to swing at a softball, and the ability to help everyone find where their errant golf balls were hit. And he could spot agates on the beach.

One of my dad’s favorite antics was to slyly pick up an agate he found and then toss it in front of whoever he was with so they could “find” it. This happened often to both Patsi and me. If we failed to notice the “planted” agate, he’d point it out and tease, “how could you miss this? It’s practically the size of a boulder?”

As we beachcombed with the kids, I was starting to regret talking up the agates so much. It’d been almost 20 years since I’d been to this beach, what if there weren’t agates any more? Was I setting my kids up for a failure?

And then my 11-year-old daughter, Miss O, exclaimed, “I found one!” Patsi, the official verifier, declared it not just an agate, but a boulder of one.

I was feeling the parental anxiety of one kid getting one when it was unlikely that the other would. Then less than three minutes after Miss O’s find, my six-year-old son said, “there’s one!” He found a beautifully colored and shaped one.

We idly kept beach combing. Now that my kids had theirs, I felt more alive to the sunshine and water sounds. As I relaxed in the breath-taking scenery in a place my beloved father loved, I looked down – and there was a beautiful agate directly in front of my left toe.

Completely unprovable but I’m 100% certain my dad was there, “planting” the agates, reveling in our joy, soothing our worries, and surrounding us with love, as he always did.

P.S. Patsi confessed later that she didn’t think we’d find any. She’s lived on that beach for 31 years so she has a pretty good sense. But there’s no accounting for magic.

(photos are mine from Guemes Island, Washington)

If my work has encouraged, inspired, or helped you try something new, consider supporting it with a small “cup of coffee” donation. Your support helps me keep creating conversations, stories, and resources that cheer people on as they do brave, meaningful work.

You can find me on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/wynneleon/ and Instagram wynneleon

Please check out the The Life of Try podcast Where trying becomes the spark for personal growth, discovery, and re-invention!

The Stories We Hold

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“Tell me facts, and I’ll learn. Tell me truth, and I’ll believe you. But tell me a story and it will live in my heart forever.” – Native American Proverb

My 11-year-old daughter, Miss O, came home from the second week of middle school with a story she was carrying. She said that there’s a 6th grade boy with ADHD. He’s short with short hair and wears purple glasses. She felt bad for him because her friends said that a teacher in a class stood behind him doing the hand motion for a chatterbox. You know – the talking with your hand kind of motion.

But then this kid got up to do karaoke at lunch. Apparently, they do karaoke on Fridays every week at her middle school. He picked a song and totally rocked it. He just gave it all he had and did great. She started crying as she told me this part because she was so impressed that someone could live out in the open like that, especially as a new-to-middle school 6th grader.

And I told her a story I was carrying. I was out walking Cooper the other day and from a block away saw my neighbor, Ken, out weeding. He lives one block west and one block south of us so not a close connection. But I have spent enough time walking with my dogs and children in the 26 years I’ve lived here that I’ve gotten to know these neighbors.

I watched as their kids left home. Then when they subdivided their lot and built a small house in the yard so their daughter and her husband could live in the house she grew up in. And then the daughter had two babies. We gave them our playhouse and our pink plastic “Fred Flintstone” car. So we’re close enough to be touched by each other but not in each other’s lives.

When I saw Ken, I wondered for a moment if I wanted to walk a different way. Not because I don’t like him, but because I knew in my gut something was wrong. The other day he was weeding his driveway and he didn’t look up. I haven’t seen his wife in a few weeks.

I chose to stay the course and used the block to just open my heart to hold whatever was coming. When I approached, Cooper leaned into him. As Ken threaded his fingers through Cooper’s fur, he quietly said, “I don’t know if you know but Marilyn passed away in June. She had pancreatic cancer.”

Oh dang. I remarked that she was young. Ken said she was 2 days younger than him – 75 years old. When I asked, he told me they’d been married for 48 years.

Both Miss O and I were crying by the time I finished telling the story. Two stories of the quiet struggle and courage of people living out loud. So many different ways to be courageous. The common denominator is that for all those that are watching, there’s not a dry eye in the house.

(featured photo is from Pexels)

If my work has encouraged, inspired, or helped you try something new, consider supporting it with a small “cup of coffee” donation. Your support helps me keep creating conversations, stories, and resources that cheer people on as they do brave, meaningful work.

You can find me on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/wynneleon/ and Instagram wynneleon

Please check out the The Life of Try podcast Where trying becomes the spark for personal growth, discovery, and re-invention!

Still Showing Up

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“What a good day to be proud of all the progress you made.” – unknown

Last week, my six-year-old son, Mr. D accidentally stepped on a bee and got stung. “Oh, my life is over,” he repeatedly moaned as I struggled to pick out the stinger. And he’s my less dramatic child. Yowsa – those stings hurt.

But most of the pain was gone in an hour and while the swelling and itchiness lasted about four days, there was a clearly an end in sight. How do you still show up when the pain is chronic? What does it mean to keep showing up when life asks more of you than seems possible?

In this episode of The Life of Try, I talk with Kathryn M. B. Johnson, author of Invisible, Until I’m Not, a memoir-in-essays about chronic illness, caregiving, grief, and resilience. Together, we explore what it means to live with fibromyalgia and invisible illness, how caregiving reshapes identity, and why being seen matters so deeply when pain is hard to explain.

Our conversation offers honest insight, emotional validation, and hope for anyone navigating chronic pain, caregiver burnout, loss, or the daily work of endurance.

Key Takeaways:

  • Chronic illness can reshape identity, relationships, and daily life in ways that are often invisible to others.
  • Caregiving is an act of love, but it also carries grief, exhaustion, and the need for self-compassion.
  • Writing can become a lifeline—a way to process pain, preserve connection, and reclaim a sense of self.
  • Being believed and truly seen matters deeply for people living with chronic pain or complex health conditions.
  • Rest is not laziness; caring for yourself is part of being able to care for others.

If you’re looking for a thoughtful podcast episode about chronic illness, caregiving, trauma, faith, and finding strength in difficult seasons, this episode is for you.

Here are some other ways you can listen and watch Liza’s amazing journey:

How to Stop Procrastinating and Start: The 10-Minute Rule for Taking Action – The Life of Try: Personal growth, one try at a time.

What if the key to overcoming procrastination isn’tfinishing—it’s simply starting? In this episode of The Life of Try,Wynne Leon shares a practical 10-minute strategy for beginning before you feel ready, taking imperfect action, and building momentum when a goal feels overwhelming.Explore why starting can feel so difficult, how the Zeigarnik effect may keep unfinished tasks active in your mind, and why one small first step can help you move forward with greater clarity and confidence. You’ll leave with a simple challenge: set a timer, make one imperfect move, and give yourself a clear next step.If you’re ready to stop procrastinating, get unstuck, and take action on something that matters, this episode is your invitation to begin. Then continue building momentum with How to Build Habits That Stick featuring Dr. Mike Rucker.What will you start today?
  1. How to Stop Procrastinating and Start: The 10-Minute Rule for Taking Action
  2. The Art of Meaningful Conversations: Lessons from 200 podcast episodes
  3. The Power of Saying Yes
  4. Growth Takes Energy| How Rest Helps Habits Stick
  5. When You Know You're Not Going to Make It

Links for this episode:

How Writing Helps Save Us From Chronic Illness and Loss transcript

Invisible, Until I’m Not on Amazon

Kathryn’s website

Kathryn’s weekly newsletter on Substack

Kathryn Johnson on LinkedIn

The Crossing: My Near Death Experience with Jesus by Liza Anderson on Amazon

Other Episodes you Might Enjoy:

⁠ Letting Go Of Outcomes: The Mindset That Keeps You Moving⁠

4⁠8: How to Get Unstuck: Michael Yang on Saying Yes, Resilience and Coming Alive⁠

⁠How to Reclaim Fun in Adult Life | Mike Rucker, PhD, on Joy, Burnout and the Fun Habit⁠

(featured photo from Pexels)

Lessons from Letting Go: Parenting Reflections

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“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” – Winnie the Pooh

There’s a lot of grief that comes with parenting, isn’t there? And I’m not referring to the grief the kids give us. I’m talking about the variety that comes with letting go.

My 10-year-old daughter< Miss O, changed the wallpaper of my phone to be a rotation of pictures of her and her younger brother. Now every time I tap the phone, I see a picture of one of the two of them, usually as younger kids.

Along with the cute pictures comes the grief. It’s small but I feel a stab of knowing I’ll never hold them on my hip like that again. Or that the era of toddler speak that required Momma interpretation has ended. Or that we don’t have so many moments of un-self-conscious joy anymore. There are all sorts of things to mourn as I get that momentary hit of how much we’ve changed. As neuroscientist Maya Shankar explains, every change comes with a loss of identity.

When I leaned into the grief, I found three things blooming underneath.

Gratitude. My sister-in-law’s mom, Georgia, repeatedly told me a story when I first had kids. She said that when my sister-in-law was six or seven, she asked Georgia to play. Georgia laments that her reply was, “No, Honey, I’d rather read my book.”

I learned from that story to say “yes” so that I’m not talking about it when I’m 75-years-old. There have been many moments it has been hard to put down my book or stop progress on something I want to get done. But more or less, when my kids have said, “Mommy, look?” or “Mom, do you want to play ball?” I’ve said yes. So now when I feel the pangs of grief that come with letting go the younger selves of my kids, I also feel the gratitude for all the memories we have made and continue to make.

Learning. My kids have learned to walk, talk, ride a bike, read, play musical instruments, bat a ball and a myriad of other things. But the grief makes me realize how much I’ve learned as well. Things like that I had name my feelings so I could teach them how to name theirs. Also how to pitch baseballs, get grass stains from the ballfield out of pants, make slime, and clean slime from clothes too. These years have not only been full of memories but also lessons and growth too.

Faith. Miss O is heading to middle school next year. The horizon is already changing with boys, more complex relationships, and a wider circle of independent activities. The number of things I can’t control is growing exponentially larger every day.

Of course, I’ve never been able to control much. This whole journey of parenting has helped me lean into faith. To say “yes” to making memories, learning, loving and leading, and then leave the rest to God.

Grief is uncomfortable. Even the small “g” kind that I’m feeling these days. But underneath it is a whole lot of goodness that reminds me to lean in to creating a life worth growing out of.

(featured photo is Miss O and Mr. D in 2019)

Writing From the Heart

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“There is a wisdom of the head, and…a wisdom of the heart.” – Charles Dickens

This post was originally published on 3/1/2023. Heads up – you may have already read this.

The other day I read a beautiful post that was a tribute to a dearly departed pet. It was so touching and zinged me right where there’s a sore spot from missing my beloved dog, Biscuit, that died six years ago. I had to walk away for about 30 minutes before I could write a comment.

I find this so often be true – the topics that are the closest to my heart are hard to write about when the tears are still flowing. When I had to say good-bye to Biscuit, the next day the only words I could manage was to put a sign next to the cat who was also grieving the loss of his buddy:

Cat missing his newly departed dog

So this set me off wondering why it is so hard. Loss of perspective? Lack of clarity so I can’t yet make meaning? Inability to see the keyboard when the tears are flowing?

Thinking it could be a left-brain/right-brain kind of thing, I looked up the neuroscience of writing and found this New York Times article: This is Your Brain on Writing. Turns out that left-brain/right-brain isn’t much of a delineation that they make these days. Instead the article describes the results an fMRI study of the brain while writing including the detail that in expert writers, there is a part of the brain, the caudate nucelus, that lights up. The same part of the brain doesn’t light up for novice writers, a result that made sense to the scientists because the caudate nucleus is the part of the brain associated with expertise. Which was interesting but didn’t get me any closer to an answer.

Then I looked to our sacred texts and the spiritual world for wisdom on those moments when I can’t write. I was reacquainted with one of my dad’s favorite quotes from 17th century mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal: “The heart has its reasons, that reason does not know.” My dad often cited this quote in an argument about belief in God – that our heart knows even if there isn’t any proof for the head. Maybe those topics that zing me are too close to my heart so they haven’t made it to the head yet?

Next on my list of possible explanations was poly-vagal theory about the three states of our nervous system. When I wrote about it for a post, The Unified Theory of Breathing I summarized the three states as: ventral which is calm and regulated, sympathetic the fight or flight response, and dorsal which is when the nervous system has been so stimulated that it shuts down. Perhaps when I can’t write, I’m flooded, in a dorsal state and can’t write? While this alludes to an answer, I don’t feel like I’m dysregulated and can’t write, just that I can’t find the words.

Finally, I turned to the world of yoga and meditation and found an explanation that makes sense to me. Stillness. When my waters are muddied, I have a harder time seeing into my depths. In times of life when the waves are choppy, I am all churned up inside. It’s only when I reconnect with my inner stillness that I can see well enough to cross the space between me and you.

What I found to be as fascinating as the question itself were the lenses I looked through to find my answer. Brain science, theology, physiology, and meditation – my four go-tos and I usually find the answer sitting in meditation. Must be why I do it every day. A confirmation bias loop because it works for me.

Here’s my take-away from the journey: It’s hard to write when I’m too wet and stirred up in my heart. And it’s also hard when I’m too dry and too much in my head. I have to aim for somewhere in the middle where I’m soft, warm, and clear.

What about you?

The Onset of Reality

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“I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.” – e.e. cummings

Recently my kids and I were at my dad’s former church for an Easter event. On the way out, Miss O asked to see my dad’s stone in the columbarium. It’s in a beautiful nook by a babbling little brook surrounded by trees.

Miss O and I like patterns. So we looked at all the stones and saw the ones, like my dad’s, that are offset because their spouse/partner will be added when they die. And then the ones where the name is in the middle because they are by themselves.

Miss O wanted to know about the dates on my dad’s stone. I pointed out his birth date and then she looked at the date of his death and said, “Because everyone comes to their death date.”

Right!

[As aside, this reminds me of one of my dad’s jokes: “There’s always death and taxes; however, death doesn’t get worse every year.”]

She made that death date observation without any gravity or sadness. My kids can envision monsters and thieves but death doesn’t hold any weight for them.

At four-years-old and eight-years-old, they seem to attend to whatever is at hand with very little worry about the future. Somewhere between four and fifty-four, “reality” hits.

Which reminded me that a few weeks ago at bedtime, Miss O told me that she and her friend have been using recess to talk about “big topics.” I couldn’t wait to hear about these so I snuggled in next to her and asked, “Like what?”

She replied, “Puberty and reality. Puberty was my friend’s topic and I brought up reality. I can’t believe it starts in three years.”

I asked “What starts in three years?”

She replied, “Reality. You know. Middle school.”

I’m laughing, but perhaps that’s when it does start. The planning and preparing, setting the expectations for what life should be.

Thank goodness there’s death as an antidote. For me, being periodically reminded that “everyone comes to their death date” is helpful.  Not knowing when that will be prompts me to lay down my plans and to live.

(featured photo is mine)

Speaking of great reasons to write down our stories before we meet our death date, Vicki and I talk with author, publisher, podcaster, and former radio producer, Rick Kaempfer on our podcast, Episode 62: The Loop Files with Rick Kaempfer. He tells some incredible stories about the most outrageous radio station ever. And does an amazing job at poignantly describing one of the reasons we write.

Search (and subscribe!) for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Apple, Amazon, Spotify or Pocket Casts. Or click through to the link above to see the video excerpts from that podcast, the link to listen in browser, plus all of Rick’s links.

The Window Part 2

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“When we were children, we used to think that when we were grownup we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability. To be alive is to be vulnerable.” – Madeleine L’Engle

Do you remember this scene in Winnie the Pooh?

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. ‘Pooh!’ he whispered.

‘Yes, Piglet?’

‘Nothing’ said Piglet taking Pooh’s paw, ‘I just wanted to be sure of you.'”

Winnie the Poor by A.A. Milne

Of the many sweet things about that exchange, one that I notice is how proximity is so reassuring. The “sure of you” quality of a hug or a hand.

When I wrote the piece about The Window six months ago, our neighbors and my daughter’s first best friend had just moved away. The window had shut and the only thing that I knew for certain was that the reassurance that comes from proximity was no longer going to be there.

Getting to the other side of that grief only comes with time. Now I’ve written The Window Part 2 on the Heart of the Matter blog. It’s part reflection on loss – and part reflection on what comes next…

Monday Mourning

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“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.” – Paulo Coehlo

The other day I needed to drop off something at the church where my dad last served as senior pastor. It’s also where his ashes are interred so I stopped by the Memorial Garden and put my hand on his stone. Even now, almost eight years after his sudden death in a bicycle accident, tears immediately sprung to my eyes as I imagined all the things I want to talk with him about and even heard his answers down in my bones.

After I’d been standing there for a couple of minutes, someone that knew my dad and knows me walked by. She simply whispered, “Beautiful picture” as she passed.

I’ve been thinking about that moment as I’ve watched the celebration of Queen Elizabeth II. Grief for someone who has done life well or is touched our lives significantly has its moments of being so beautiful. It celebrates both our relationship with them as well as what they did well in life. For me processing my grief means that I can start to distill the most important lessons I learned from those I’ve lost.

Trying to get a perspective on the huge topic of grief, I turned to Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown. She quotes the work of The Center for Complicated Grief at Columbia on their definitions of grief which include both acute grief, which marks the initial period after a loss, and integrated grief.

Integrated grief is the result of adaptation to the loss. When a person adapts to a loss grief is not over. Instead, thoughts, feelings and behaviors related to their loss are integrated in ways that allow them to remember and honor the person who died. Grief finds a place in their life.

The Center for Complicated Grief

Specific to my dad, I feel as if the longer he’s gone, the more I embody him. It’s as if I relied on him as a source of energy and wisdom for all those years he was alive and now that I don’t have him to do it in person, I’ve had to become that energy source. There are also others who I’ve grieved and in that process have learned the lessons of what not to become so it’s worked both ways.

Despite that integrating, I still leak tears when I talk to my dad. And also ache for those going through acute grief in all those rending and earth-shattering emotions.  We stand on the shoulders on those who went before us – may we remember all their lessons, good and bad, and honor them in those beautiful still moments.

We Carry Them With Us

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“At some point, you have to realize that some people can stay in your heart but not in your life.” – Sandi Lynn

When I woke my daughter up last Friday for the last day of school, she had a frown. I thought perhaps it was just the fog of sleepiness still lifting but she told me otherwise.

“I was happy that it was the last week of school but I’m not happy that it is the last day. It’s not like you can ever go back.”

She didn’t want to leave her beloved 1st grade teacher. I thought the buildup and anticipation of summer would carry the day so I was caught off-guard, something fairly common for me as a parent.

The grief of the school year ending reminded me of a Ten Percent Happier podcast about the science of loss and grieving with Mary-Frances O’Connor, Associate Professor of Clinical Psychology at the University of Arizona. She talked about what happens when we bond with someone – it actually changes the brain so that we encode that person is special. In the brain imaging studies O’Connor recounted, yearning for someone lit up the part of the brain that is the reward center of the brain, the nucleus accumbens.

Her conclusion was that even when our memories tell us that something has changed – someone is gone, an experience has ended – even when we know all that, the part of our brain that was transformed when we bonded still lights up. In O’Connor’s example, when she goes to pick an Easter dress, she’s still impacted by her mother. She may pick the dress her mother would like or the one that her mother would hate, but either way her mother is still present.

This explanation resonated with me. It explains that warmth I get when I think of my dad putting his arm around me and saying “It’s going to be great, Kid!” Or the little skip in my step I experience when I hike a trail my beloved dog Biscuit liked and I think of how he’d run back and forth.

I’ve often said that the longer my dad is gone, the more that I feel him inside me as if I have to act out the parts that I used to rely on him playing. O’Connor’s research says that in a way, that is true because he lives on inside my brain. I’d say that same about my dog which is true but also I’ve always had a personality much like a golden retriever.

Knowing that I’ll always exist in my kid’s heads gives me a little perspective on what that voice should say. Is the soundtrack that wants them to pick up after themselves or the one that says that they are lovable, kind and capable of anything? I’m aiming for a little bit of the former but mostly the latter.

As we moved through this past weekend, my daughter kept asking, “what would I be doing at school now?” She was processing the experience of being done by remembering all her school activities and quoting her teacher to me. Knowing a little about the science of how we record things didn’t help me know what to say, but it did give me a lot of patience for her yearning.  

By the end of the weekend, my daughter said, “I’m so happy for the Kindergartners that will have my teacher next year.” To get to our new experience, we have to cross the threshold of leaving the old. But the bonds we formed in the old experience go with us.

The Short Good-Bye

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“Dogs are not our whole lives, but they make our lives whole.” – Roger Karas

At the end of April, a few days before we were leaving for vacation in Colorado, my friend Eric mentioned his dog, Argus, started limping. Since Eric was going on vacation with us he wanted to get his Argus into the vet before we left. His regular vet didn’t have any openings but fortunately he found one a little further away that could see him on a Sunday. I texted him after the appointment asking how it went and he didn’t respond. A delayed response is pretty normal for Eric but this felt ominous.

Five years ago, I was feeling pretty tender after losing my beloved dog Biscuit and as an antidote was browsing the local shelter’s website for available dogs. It was a Friday afternoon and all of a sudden a dog that was a yellow lab/golden retriever mix popped up – so new to the site he didn’t even have a picture.

As soon as Miss O woke from her nap, I scooped her up and we went to the shelter. The dog had just come in, they thought he was 2-3 years old. He’d been adopted out from a shelter and then returned two weeks later because he was too high energy. I knew that with a 1 ½ year-old child that I couldn’t adopt him but I filled out the paperwork to put him on hold in case Eric did. Many years prior when Eric and I dated (before we become just friends and it’s not just a phrase but it works for us), he had a yellow lab and I had a golden retriever. His lab had died at a ripe old age and he hadn’t yet gotten a new dog.

Eric came down and visited the dog the next day with us. When he jumped at the opportunity to adopt him, he was surprised to find that I’d already filled the paperwork out. It started the joke that I adopted the dog for him.

Argus was high energy and full of surprises but he fit with Eric. Argus would find a way to lie on the couch no matter how many stools or chairs Eric put up there to keep him off. So Eric came up with a plan to put a towel on Argus’ side of the couch where he could lie – but that just meant Argus laid on Eric’s side. Have you seen that Internet meme where there’s a couch with three dogs on it and a man sitting on the floor in front of it that says, “It took a lot of training but finally he learned”? That was a perfect description for Eric and Argus.

A few months ago Eric ordered take-out Indian food. He put the Naan bread on the table when he stepped into the kitchen for a moment to load his plate and came back. There was “non” bread anymore and Argus didn’t even look guilty.

Miss O thought she could practice training dogs by working with Argus. Which worked pretty well when Argus felt like complying. One day we right behind her as she walked Argus until he saw some dogs ahead and pulled off like a shot, Miss O hanging on to the leash as he pulled her along on her butt down the sidewalk for 50 feet.

Eric called me the day after his vet appointment. The vet found cancer all through the leg and it had already spread to the lungs. Treatment meant amputating the leg and a lot of chemotherapy and the vet was pretty clear it still wouldn’t likely work. Eric had to make the decision to put Argus down. He said it took 90 minutes from the beginning of the appointment to the end.

Hot tears spilled on my cheek as we talked about Argus and saying good-bye. It didn’t feel like he was old enough to have to go. Where were the golden years when he mellowed out? It’s taken me three weeks to write about this because my ache for my friend and this beautiful dog is too close to the heart.

But then yesterday I listened to a Ten Percent Happier podcast with New Yorker writer and author of Lost & Found Kathryn Schulz and it helped me find the words. She observes that it’s funny that we use the same word “lost” to describe the hat we misplaced and the people we love who have died. She added that we grieve in proportion to the way we love them which I take to mean that I wouldn’t have spent six paragraphs describing my hat like I just did with Argus. But she eloquently described the bafflement we feel when we’ve lost our keys and when we’ve lost someone to be very similar. Even though the time and way we’ll grieve will be different, the feeling of “What? I just had them in my hand!” is the same incomprehension.

I’ve been writing about the long good-bye for my daughter and her friend that is moving in three months and then this too short good-bye snuck up to show me the opposite end of the spectrum. It turns out that all good-byes feel hard. But I find solace in to knowing that good-bye started as a shortening of “God be with you,” I find comfort in wishing God be with you to Argus.

P.S. If the name Argus (or sometimes spelled Argos) sounds familiar, Eric named him Argus after Odysseus’ faithful dog. When Odysseus returned from his 20 years at war and wandering, Argus was the only one that recognized him. He lifted his head to see his master one last time and then died.