My time wintering wasn’t what I expected. I had visions of hygge-licious days filled with soft light, warm blankets, good books, puppy snuggles, and naps.
There was some of all those things. And there was a lot of work. For sure, there were moments of joy, but the time was not entirely enjoyable. Sprinkled amidst periods of contentment were moments of grief because this time wasn’t unfolding as I had imagined.
Last week I received word that the last of the dogs I shared with my ex had crossed over the rainbow bridge. Brady was a good dog. He was a bit of a dinglenut and was the most pain-in-the-ass puppy I have ever experienced—then or now. Still, I loved him and he had a special place in my heart. I didn’t think my heart could break again losing Brady for a second and now final time, because he had already been absent from my life for so long. But it did.
July was a month of loss. Four souls in my larger circle passed away. I was doing pretty well being with the loss and staying present to my feelings until the news of last death. That one pushed me over the emotional edge and suddenly I was eight years old again. It’s my experience with this loss and the change it affected on my life that established the pattern for how I would handle transitions from then on.
Not for a second since accepting the revelation that I am no longer going to pursue the B&B have I felt a sense of regret. In many ways, I feel like a weight had been lifted. The decision has left me feeling freer and more buoyant. That’s not to say, though, that the decision didn’t leave me feeling sad.
